


painting it all red

by lightyaers



Series: her father's revolver [1]
Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: 1920s, Abuse, Angst, Artist!Reader, But Still Kinda Canon, Bye Bye Grace, Death, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Female Reader, Fluff, In Character, John Shelby is an Angel, Mention of Grace Burgess - Freeform, Michael Gray is a Snacc, OCs - Freeform, Original Characters - Freeform, Post-Season/Series 01, Reader Needs a Hug, Romance, Sexual Harassment, Sexual Tension, She/Her, Slow Burn, Swearing, Tommy Shelby Has a Heart, World War I, non-canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:47:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 21
Words: 45,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22771990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightyaers/pseuds/lightyaers
Summary: “This may not be the promised land, but I assure you I am capable of pouring beer into glasses.”“If this isn’t the promised land, why would you come here?” He spoke. You laid your eyes on the back of his head.“No one ever went to the promised land to be a barmaid, Mr. Shelby.”After leaving your suffocating home, with only your paints and the clothes on your back, and hopping on a train to Birmingham, the last thing you expected was to be working for Thomas fucking Shelby.You also didn't expect to be breaking the law for him, but working for the Shelby Brothers was never going to be simple...
Relationships: Tommy Shelby/Reader
Series: her father's revolver [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1708357
Comments: 112
Kudos: 442





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> To be honest, I made an entirely new ao3 just so I could post shit like this in PEACE. WITHOUT PEOPLE I KNOW PERSONALLY FINDING OUT ABOUT IT. Whoops. 
> 
> Needless to say, I rewatched Peaky Blinders and am still utterly in love with Thomas Shelby. It was only a matter of time before my stupid fictional loving ass wrote a reader insert for the man, the myth, the legend. That time has come. 
> 
> Just a reminder of the tags above// TW  
> \- Sexual abuse/harassment  
> \- Murder  
> \- Bloody Violence  
> Will all be present within this reader insert. If you've seen Peaky Blinders then you know this show isn't exactly a pretty affair, apart from Tommy himself. Just wanted to make it absolutely clear before you begin reading.
> 
> I wrote 9k words of this shit all of yesterday, but I'll hopefully be updating this baby every few days. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Thomas Shelby knew what kind of man he was; frightening; without a conscience; the righthand man to the Devil himself. If work needed to be done, he’d make sure it was executed in the most efficient way possible. If another man was shot dead in front of him, he would simply look the other way. If any woman entered his life that wasn’t just a whore, he would cease to try and make small talk.

You had no idea what kind of woman you were. All you knew was that you needed _something_ to change. That’s what lead you to Birmingham, of all places. It was grimy, it was dangerous. Full to the brim with drunkards that wouldn’t second guess holding a woman against a wall on the street in broad daylight; stuffed to breaking point with gangs, drug-lords, money launderers and murderers.

But it was cheap enough for you to grab a one room flat above The Garrison and be employed downstairs as a barmaid. It was dingy enough for no one to bat an eye at you going about your business at night, in the darkness, lit only by the shine of your paints, reflected on another wall. After the war, some turned to government work; illegal betting shops; killing for money.

You, however, chose art.

A blank canvas was your favourite thing in the world, and luckily for you, Birmingham had enough blank brick walls for you to stamp yourself all over. It didn’t start out that way, though—

In 1914, you took up art sessions at your local church in rural Berkshire. Your mother ran a bakery, your father and your two brothers ran the farm. Life was as pleasant as you’d always known. It was sweet, but predictable.

Then, your father and brothers were drafted in the war. They were stationed in France, at the Somme. You spent the next few years waiting for them to arrive home and tending the bakery with your mother. Some days were good. Your mother was fine at first, but the longer her children and husband were away from home, the more her mind deteriorated.

When you received the telegram that they’d died in action, that’s when your mother stopped talking completely. She was gone, replaced by an empty, exploded shell. The bakery went bust, and you were both forced to move in with your grandparents.

Your grandmother spent her days fussing with your mother. You were a blip on their radar, told to get a job and run errands, sell anything you could to make a stable living. It wasn’t living, you were simply existing. At night, under the dim candlelight, you’d draw in the privacy of your room. You weren’t naïve. You knew there was no place for women artists in this world, you knew you wouldn’t make a shilling for anything you drew—

But it was all you knew, all you loved.

Your home was suffocating you. Your mother was no more. Your grandparents had no care for you; an unmarried twenty-year old woman, scrounging off them for all they had and trying to get by.

When you saw the advertisement for a barmaid job at The Garrison in Small Heath, Birmingham, it was a split-second decision that you’d never been more certain about in your entire life. You packed quietly and quickly, taking only what you knew you’d need; clothes; paints; the small revolver your father had given you the day before him and your brothers were shipped to France. You gathered together the measly savings you’d chosen to hide from your family and got on the next train to Birmingham.

You didn’t look back. You didn’t leave a note. You were smoke. You weren’t made to stay confined.

You met Thomas Shelby your first day in Birmingham. His family owned The Garrison, and until that day you’d never heard of them. After, you soon realised they were the only thing that anyone talked about.

Harry, manager at The Garrison, eyed you sceptically, looking you up and down. “Where’d’you come from?” He had a thick Brummy accent. That was something you’d have to get used to.

“Down South, Berkshire, a small village called Goring.” You stood still, your only suitcase on the floor by your side. You held your hands in front of you, trying to relax. If you didn’t get this job, you had no idea where you’d live. The barmaid position included the flat upstairs.

"You’re very far from home, y’know.” He smiled, showing you a few greyed teeth. He didn’t come across malicious, however.

“I couldn’t stay there any longer.” You didn’t elaborate, and he didn’t push you. He did a once over of your papers again, sighing.

“Look, I can’t say if you can work here. All applicants go through Mr. Shelby. He’s already turned down five other girls.” He folded your papers and handed them back to you, heading around to stand behind the bar and finish up polishing glasses.

“When can I speak with Mr. Shelby, then?” You spoke up, turning to the bar. Harry flashed you a concerned look before going back to polishing.

“He’ll be in around noon. Wait here, if you like.” Harry finished up polishing a glass and placed it on the bar in front of you. “Drink?” He asked.

You contemplated your options. These were the kind of people to drink before eleven in the morning. These were not the people you were accustomed to at all, but you _needed_ this position. You _needed_ this.

“Gin, please.”

-

You finished your gin as the clock struck noon. On the final chime, the doors to the Garrison were bombarded open. You stared silently as three men entered—

They all had striking blue eyes and wore their caps low, but walked proudly, as if they owned the entire world. The tallest and thinnest strolled with a bravado that you’d never seen before. He took in short breaths and sniffed, bringing a hand up to his moustache. The shorter, and youngest looking of the bunch, stared huskily at his surroundings, heading straight behind the bar to grab a bottle of scotch. The middle man—

He took a final drag of his cigarette and put the butt out in one of the ashtrays on the closest table. His sunken eyes were dark and blistering, obscured slightly by the smoke encasing his face. Your heart skipped as the three of them gathered in front of the bar, not daring to move except to tap your fingers on your now empty glass, patiently.

You knew these men were the Shelby’s, but the Mr. Shelby in question was still unknown.

“Harry.” The middle man stuck his hand out to Harry, who accepted his shake firmly.

“Mr. Shelby.” He nodded in approval.

“Still clearing up after last night?” Mr. Shelby pulled a pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket and dangled one from his mouth.

“Business was busy, and I’m just one man.” Harry chuckled slightly, picking up another glass to polish. Mr. Shelby shuffled his hands from pocket to pocket, no doubt looking for his matches.

Without thinking, you plucked a small matchbox from your pocket and slid it across the bar to him. Mr. Shelby stopped his searching and finally looked towards you. His eyes struck you like a punch to the throat. The blood rushed to your cheeks, but you chose to ignore it. The immediate aura that you got off all three men was that they were not to be messed with. The room was suddenly eerily silent.

The two other Shelby’s gave you a once over, before silently agreeing to something. They headed to a corner room, their shoes banging on the wooden floor, and slammed the door shut. Harry turned his back, intent on straightening out liquor bottles.

Mr. Shelby kept his gaze on you a few seconds more before picking up the matchbox and holding it in his fingers. He plucked the cigarette from his lips, fiddling with it in his fingers.

“What’s someone like you doing in this here establishment?” His voice was rough and low. His words didn’t come across as a question, but as a demand.

“I wish to be the barmaid here, and live upstairs.” You took his silence as an indication to continue. As steadily as you could, you grabbed your papers and handed them to him. He paused, before snatching them from your hands. His eyes skimmed the pages for no more than ten seconds before he folded them back up and smacked them on the bar.

“I suggest you look for work someplace else.” He said with a finality that you weren’t expecting, and your heart almost leapt into your throat. You stood up abruptly, adrenaline coursing through your veins.

“You need help here, I can see that. Like Harry said, he’s just one man.” Mr. Shelby placed the unlit cigarette between his lips once more. Did he always have to do everything with an aura of mysteriousness? It was already becoming old.

“And you think you have the expertise to be that person, coming from a place such as--,” He unfolded the papers quickly on the bar and tapped his finger over the words. “ _Goring_.” You were speechless, but stood your ground, trying your best to raise your chin strongly. “You’re in the wrong place, Miss [L/N]. Go home.” With that, he dropped the matches onto the bar and went to make his leave.

Your mind raced. This was your only chance, you’d travelled miles from home intent on this position, just to live, to survive, to have something new; to _escape_. And one look at your papers by Mr. Thomas Shelby had been enough to ruin everything.

“It’s not my home anymore, Mr. Shelby.” You spoke as loud as your voice dared, the smallest sliver of anger beginning to invade your logical nature. He stopped, his back turned to you. “This may not be the promised land, and I may not have done bar work before, but I assure you I am capable of pouring beer into glasses.”

“If this isn’t the promised land, why would you come here?” He spoke. You laid your eyes on the back of his head.

“No one ever went to the promised land to be a barmaid, Mr. Shelby.” You swallowed, breathing deeply. Thomas turned back to you, strolling closer to the bar.

“Then why did you come here?” The cigarette still hung from his lips.

“Why did you turn down another five women before me?” The question had risen from somewhere within you, and before you’d realised it the words had already left your mouth. If he was in anyway astounded, Thomas didn’t show it. Strolling closer to you, he plucked the cigarette from his mouth once more, his eyes boring into you with no hesitation. You refused to leave his gaze.

“Wasn’t certain I could trust them.” He spoke finally, and shot his stare to the matches, still unused, on the bar top. “How do I know I can trust you?”

To your amazement, you allowed yourself a small smile. The cogs in your brain had worked out exactly what to say.

“I get the sense anything I reply to that won’t be adequate enough, Mr. Shelby. How are you to trust me when I have an inkling that I may not be able to trust you in return?” The clang of a bottle from Harry brought you back to your senses. Suddenly, Thomas’s stare was too much to bear. You looked down to your hands, trying to control your breathing.

You thought of the miniscule savings in your suitcase. You thought of the horror of living on the streets in this place. You thought of how you’d even begin to survive in the world like this, utterly alone—

But you didn’t think of home. It wasn’t there for you anymore, and you didn’t want it.

The sound of a match striking filled your ears. When you looked up, Thomas finally lit his cigarette, taking a long drag and filling the space around you both with smoke. You inhaled, finding you didn’t hate the musty smell. Thomas took a step forward and held the matches out. You took the box from his grasp without a sound.

Thomas looked to the ground towards your suitcase. “Is that all you brought?” He took another drag, holding the smoke in his lungs for a few seconds before exhaling.

“It’s all I have.”

He paused before grabbing the cigarettes from his breast pocket and pulling a stick from the packet. He handed it to you gently. Your fingers wrapped around it slowly, you’d never actually smoked before. Without hesitating, you put the cigarette between your lips and lit a match, bringing the flame to the end. It burned a golden orange as you inhaled. The smoke coiled down your throat, burning ever so slightly, but you didn’t— _wouldn’t_ — choke. You held the smoke in your lungs for a few seconds before breathing out. The smoke trailed from your mouth like breaths in the cold.

Thomas finished his cigarette quickly, stabbing the butt out on the bar. Quickly, he scooped up your papers and stuffed them in his inside pocket. “Go upstairs, but don’t unpack. Be down here at 6pm for the evening shift. Harry will show you how things work. Tomorrow, I decide whether you stay or go.” As suddenly as he’d arrived, Thomas Shelby was out the front door of the Garrison, the door slamming shut behind him.

The squeak of a doorknob startled you, and you let out a long and shaky breath. The other Shelby’s walked out of the corner room and leant on the bar beside you. “Harry, three glasses.” The youngest said, and you went back to sitting on your bar stool, taking another moment to calm down your rapid heart.

Thomas Shelby was _terrifying_.

Harry placed three glasses down, and the youngest poured whiskey into each. Slowly, he slid one across the bar to you. You looked up at him, confused.

“We were waiting for when he’d finally fucking hire someone. You did good.” They’d been eavesdropping. The youngest stuck his hand out. “I’m John Shelby.” You took his hand in your own, still trying to compute what was happening.

“[Y/N] [L/N]. And I’m not hired yet.”

“Well you fucking should be after that,” The other Shelby said, downing his whiskey in two large gulps. “Name’s Arthur Shelby.” He nodded in your direction, before his moustache curled into a small smile. “Never seen someone leave our Tommy that lost for words in a while.” You let out a huff.

“He didn’t seem lost for words to me.”

“Nah, believe me, the other girls that came in here trying to get the job all left without a fight. ‘Least you lasted longer than five bloody minutes.” John let out a chuckle, taking a gulp of whiskey and finishing his glass. He smacked Arthur on the shoulder. “Come on, bets aren’t gonna take themselves.” John gave me a once over again. “Drink up. You’re gonna need it for tonight.”

“Just remember, if any man tries to give it to ya, give them a firm knee in the balls.” Arthur mimed a knee kick. With that, the other Shelby brothers left the Garrison, door slamming once more and silence creeping in.

It was as if they’d never been here.

Harry polished the final glass and stacked it with the others. He left out a huff. “Right, come on. I’ll show you the flat upstairs.” You nodded, rising from the stool and going to grab your suitcase. You stopped abruptly, looking at the untouched whiskey you’d been poured.

In one swipe, the glass was to your lips.

You downed it in one.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said I'd update every few days but I'm already like four chapters ahead, so I just thought I'd say to tell with it and post this one as well. Yeet.

The flat was nothing to boast about, but it was a roof over your head. It was enough.

You followed Thomas’s words and didn’t unpack. You didn’t want to get your hopes up only to fuck up on shift and be kicked out on the streets. You sat down on the single bed that took up most of the room, its springs creaking painfully. The walls were a faded baby blue, and the kitchenette in the corner was nothing more than a glorified unlit stove—

You refrained from imagining what it would be like for this to actually become home. All you’d seen of Small Heath was the trek you’d taken from the train station to the Garrison, and it hadn’t been particularly pretty.

But it was _new_. It was someplace you could, well, do what _you_ wanted.

You were free. You could go anywhere, you could window-shop, you could pour drinks, listen to old war stories, stop going to church; it was your decision.

In Berkshire, gangs were non-existent. Living there was peaceful, easy; _boring_. Nothing new happened, and if something did it wasn’t actually all that exciting. Your mother’s descent had been the last straw. Living with her in that state for a year and a half had got you to the end of your tether.

To uproot yourself from your uneventful life and head to Birmingham had taken you only seconds to fully decide upon.

You _wanted_ this—

You needed something to _happen_ in your life—

But the Shelby’s were not what you’d been expecting at all.

Even after Thomas had left, his stare stayed etched in your mind. It was piercing, as if he could divulge your every thought from one look. He had a way with words, a way with actions, that you could tell he thought about meticulously, even if he came across so unbothered. From one look you could tell what he was—

Dangerous. Intelligent. Controlled. _Untouchable—_

Driven by something that you didn’t yet understand. You’d never encountered anyone that showed so much of themselves on first glance without _actually_ showing themselves at all. He was a question mark burned into your being.

John and Arthur were easier to divulge. The Shelby’s obviously ran a family business, taking bets by the sounds of it. You’d never betted or gambled, and you doubted you’d be any good at either. You also doubted whether or not their so-called business was even legal—

But that was _none_ of your business.

You could almost imagine Thomas telling you to keep your nose out of it, so you knew you wouldn’t dare ask anytime soon, especially not tonight.

Your body ached as you lied down on the squeaky bed. You let out a small sigh of relief; you’d made it here in one piece; you were one step closer to having employment; and you had five hours until your shift.

A question that still burned furiously was why Thomas had taken so long to hire someone, why he was so intent on trust. Perhaps he’d been betrayed in the past, broken by it, set on never again falling into the same traps.

You wondered if you’d ever find out the truth.

You closed your tired eyes, drifting into a dreamless sleep.

-

You were back downstairs by quarter to six. Harry handed you an apron, which you tied around your waist to protect your skirt from, no doubt, all the beer you’d get poured down you.

“These are the beer pipes,” Harry explained. “Just pull, should take three tugs to fill a pint. That’s pale ale, dark, lager and stout. Gets simpler the more you do it.” He smiled as you poured your first pint, filling it to just below the rim of the glass. He turned to the back bar. “These are the liquors and spirits. One glug for a single, two for a double. Mix ‘em with cordial if people ask.”

You poured a few whiskeys and rums to get the approximate measurements right. Harry seemed content enough. “Tonight, all you gotta do is pour pints and make sure we have enough glasses, check the tables every so often and give them a dunk in the water bowl before polishing them up a bit. Other than that, we empty the ashtrays and piss pots at the end of the night. Got it?”

“Got it.” You replied strongly. Straightening out your apron, the clock chimed six—

And it began.

The Shelby’s didn’t arrive until just after eight, but you hardly noticed when the brothers entered. They headed straight for the corner room, just off the bar, and you hadn’t seen them since. You were encased in pouring drinks and taking pounds. You’d got a few stares from locals coming in for the evening, but other than an offhand comment about there being a new barmaid in town, the men left you alone—

Until they started to get drunk.

The clock struck ten when one gentleman approached you at the bar, his words noticeably slurring. “Four pints of lager, sweetheart. Bring ‘em to the table.” You glanced over to where the man and his friends were sitting. The other three men were staring and smiling slimily as you looked towards them. One moved in his chair, propping his elbow up on the table and opening his legs wider.

You did as you were told, pouring the pints after you got payment. The man stumbled back to his table as you placed their pints on a tray, leaving the safety of the bar and heading to their table.

Externally, you tried to stay composed as you started placing their drinks on the table. None of them uttered a word, but simply stared at you with hungry eyes. You brain was screaming at you—this was unsafe; this could get messy; just put the drinks down and leave, as fast as you can.

As you went to place the final pint on the table, the man who opened his legs moved closer to you, his hand sneaking around to forcefully grab your arse. You gasped suddenly, and your hand slipped. The pint dropped from your hands, smashing as it hit the table-top, and drenching the groper in beer. He got up suddenly, screaming obscenities as his mates laughed.

You met his gaze—his eyes were burning red. You took a fumbled step back, but it wasn’t fast enough. He lunged forward, grabbing you by the shoulders. “You whore, you did that on purpose, didn’t you?”

He spat in your eyes, shaking you as you tried fruitlessly to pry his grip off of you. The more you tried to get away, the deeper his fingernails pressed through the thin fabric of your shirt. “I’m sorry—,” You yelped out, beginning to cry and shout as he got closer to your face.

“Sorry, huh? Sorry won’t dry off my cock now, will it?” In one motion, he’d thrown you backwards into another table of men. You lost your footing completely, whacking your back against a chair and dropping to the floor, hitting your head on the brim of the table on the way down.

Words scrambled into yells inside your ears as you tried to place yourself. All you saw was the man slowly advancing on you, the tray you’d held before clasped in his greasy, beer drenched hands.

“That all you have to say for yourself, sweetheart? That all you’re gonna fucking do? Sit on the floor like a fucking bitch after a good fuck?” The sound of a door opening hit your ears, and suddenly the bar went utterly silent. You moved your gaze over to the Shelby’s corner room. Stood in the doorway was Thomas, hand still on the doorknob. You could see John and Arthur sat inside, swilling their whiskey as they watched the scene play out. Another woman you’d never seen sat beside them, watching. You could see the family resemblance.

Thomas stared as you sat, slumped, on the floor. Your head began to throb painfully, but all that was going through your mind was that Shelby stare, piercing right into you.

Slowly, you got yourself up, trying not to show how you were trembling. You found your footing and brushed off the dust from your apron. You forced yourself to stride forward, chin up, towards the man that had just abused you.

You stood opposite him, your heart thumping uncomfortably fast under your ribs. He sent a snarl at you, continuing to look you up and down like a piece of meat in a slaughterhouse. “Come to apologise?” His voice was ugly and repelled you, but you chose to ignore his words. Instead, you shot your hand out in front of him, as sternly as you could. He stared at your palm, almost amused, before smacking the tray back down in your hands.

“Next pint is on the house.” You spoke bluntly, turning towards to the bar without another word. The pub stayed silent as you smacked the tray down on the bar and went to pouring another pint. When you were done, you strode back to the man’s table and slammed the pint down. “Will that be everything, _Sir_?” You allowed yourself to shoot him a sarcastic smile, hoping that he wouldn’t see through it in his drunk state.

“Yes. Now fuck off, sweetheart.” He sent you an ugly smile back, and with that you strolled back to the bar, passing Thomas Shelby as he still stood in the doorframe. As you rounded the bar you met his eye for a second. He slammed the door shut without hesitation, and the pub sprang back to life as if nothing had happened.

Harry approached you gently, sending you a sympathetic look. “Go have a cigarette, [Y/N]. I’ll clean up the broken glass.”

“I don’t have any cigarettes.” You said bluntly.

“’Ere,” A voice yelled from the end of the bar, coming from a small window leading into the Shelby’s private room. John poked his head through the gap, his outstretched arm holding a pack of smokes. “Take them all. We have enough.” You approached John and took the pack from his hand.

“Thank you, Sir.”

“John’s fine,” He stopped abruptly as someone from inside the room got his attention. Thomas, cigarette in mouth, handed John a box of matches. John took them and passed them through the window and into your hands. You met Thomas’s eyes for the second time. He looked away first. “Don’t worry about them. They’re sleazy, don’t know how to treat a woman. You did good, [Y/N].” You allowed yourself to let out a pained chuckle.

“You keep saying that. Not sure I believe it just yet.” John let out a chuckle in response, and you took that as your leave.

You left the bar and headed for an adjacent room. You opened the window slightly and sat on the floor, plucking a cigarette from the full packet and striking a match. You lit the end and inhaled deeply. This time, you choked, the smoke hitting the back of your throat like fire, but you persisted. Everyone here smoked, you had to fit in somehow. Besides, it oddly soothed you. The smoothness of the paper wrapped tobacco, the musty smell, the way smoke coiled beautifully through the air for a few seconds, before disappearing without a trace.

You’d never dealt with anything like this, and you’d be lying to yourself if you said you didn’t feel out of your depth here. But something else had boiled up inside you after the man had pushed you down, after you’d seen the way Thomas Shelby stared at you, almost waiting to see if you’d give up.

In that moment you’d wanted to _prove_ yourself. Not to any man in that bar, not to Thomas fucking Shelby, but to yourself. The fear you’d felt as he’d grabbed your shoulders had turned into something stronger, something that had never been triggered inside of you until now—

You could, _would_ , do anything you set your mind to—

You would tackle this town the same way you’d tackled leaving home—

You would deal with these drunkards the same way you’d got Thomas Shelby to give you a chance—

_By yourself._

You were halfway through your cigarette when the door opened and closed. The Shelby woman you’d seen before walked towards you, a glass of whiskey in her hands. She looked to be a severe woman, but there was an underlying kindness to the way she looked at you. She was much older than the Shelby brothers, but still beautiful with her dark curls and slim physique. You took another drag as she joined you on the floor. You quickly offered her a cigarette. She simply chuckled.

“In this town, if you’re given something you hold onto it.” She grabbed one of her own cigarettes and lit it, placing the whiskey down on the windowsill. “That’s for you. Thought you might need it after that bang to the head.” You let out a breathy chuckle, taking another drag.

“Does everyone fix their problems with alcohol in this town, too?”

“You’re learning already.” You looked at the glass of whiskey once more.

“I doubt he’ll keep me on after that shoddy scene.” That made her truly laugh, and you looked at her with furrowed brows.

“Please, Tommy would have kicked you out immediately if you hadn’t of got up. But you did, and you sorted everything out after, with no fuss. He’ll hire you, alright.”

“Guess I’ll just have to get used to men acting like dogs.” You finished your cigarette and threw the butt out the window.

“It gets easier,” She added, moving her stare to your face. “You’re a pretty girl, it’ll be tough for a while. Be ready for it.” Her eyes traversed your cheeks, hair, lips. “I’m Polly, the boys’ aunt. You need anything, you come to me.” With that, she rose from her seated position. “Drink that and get back out there.” She added, smoke coiling around her. You took the glass from the sill. Without hesitating, you downed the contents.

You checked your apron and headed back out to the bar, choosing to polish some glasses for a while. As your eyes scanned the bar, you noticed the four men from earlier were no longer there. You gave Harry a nudge. “Where’d they go?” You nodded towards the table with four half full pints.

“Tommy told ‘em to leave for tonight. Said they’re not allowed back if they treat his staff like shit again. Not good for business, he said.” You took in Harry’s words. _Bad for business_. _His staff_. You guessed Polly was right about Thomas choosing to hire you permanently.

You chose not to dwell on the situation any longer, knowing that you’d probably get advances like that again and again, though hopefully much less forceful. You couldn’t believe you were internally accepting the fact that this was going to be an everyday occurrence, that getting grabbed and groped and prodded by drunk men would become a consistent part of your life.

You glanced at the small window leading to the Shelby’s private room, landing your stare on the back of Thomas’s head. You watched as he took another drag of his cigarette, as he poured himself another whiskey, as his brothers and aunt laughed with tipsy glee at a joke Arthur had said.

The clock chimed half-past eleven and Harry announced last orders to the final few men in the bar. You poured a few more pints, took more payments, wiped down more tables. It was simple work, easy as taking a piss, when customers weren’t bothering you. By twelve, the last few men trickled out and the Shelby’s came out from their room.

You finished wiping down the bar, sending John a smile as he drummed a beat on the bar top. Arthur pushed his hair out of his eyes. “Not the worst first shift I’ve ever seen. Until tomorrow.” He said, pulling his cap onto his head. John did the same, following his brother and Polly out of the Garrison.

Thomas stayed, putting a cigarette between his lips before shuffling through his pockets. With a faint smack, he placed two pounds on the bar in front of you. You shot your gaze from the money, then up to him, sending him a slightly confused look. “For your skirt. He slashed it after you gave him the second pint.”

You dropped the cloth suddenly, contorting your torso so you could look at the back of your skirt. To the left side was a slash in the fabric, big enough to show your undergarments. You hadn’t even noticed.

You faced forward, grabbing the cloth angrily and continuing to wipe down the bar again. Your cheeks blushed with rage. “Fucking bastard,” You muttered under your breath, scrubbing the bar more vigorously to expel the way you felt. Thomas struck a match and lit his cigarette.

“Rent is free when you work here. Pay is ten shillings an hour. I’ll up it if you last for longer than two months.” You stopped scrubbing and forced yourself to meet his eye. He pushed the two pounds closer to you. “Bar is to be ready by noon every day. We shut at midnight. You get Sundays off. Do you sing?” His question took you by surprise.

“I— sometimes.” You said, unsure of what his point was.

“Don’t sing here. Ever. Got it?” You were taken aback, but shrugged it off.

“Got it.”

“‘Got it’, what?” He added, his voice changing tone to something a lot more venomous.

His gaze was stuck on yours until you finally said, “Got it, _Sir_.” He took a drag from his cigarette, nodding once.

“Buy a new skirt.” He added bluntly, before pivoting suddenly and striding to the door, slamming it closed behind him.

You finished up the last jobs, emptying the ashtrays and piss pots without speaking. Harry leaned against the bar at twelve thirty, dragging a cloth over his brow. “That’s all. Get some sleep. I’ll be down here at nine tomorrow.” You took off your apron and folded it, placing it behind the bar before heading up to your room.

You sat on your bed, springs squeaking once more.

Coming up the stairs you’d thought that perhaps you’d cry—

You didn’t.

You simply sat, the throbbing in your head completely gone.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You will soon come to learn that I have no self control whatsoever. I just wrote two more chapters. So I say fuck it! Have another!

It wasn’t until a month later that you had the idea to paint on the walls of Small Heath, in the dead of night.

“Harry, for _fucks_ sake—,” Thomas boomed as he entered the Garrison that morning. “Have you fucking seen what’s on our wall outside?” He glared at Harry, his brows low and eyes scary. Harry shot you a weary look and followed Thomas outside the pub. You followed, but quietly, not wanting to piss him off any more than he already was.

The sight that met you wasn’t pretty. At night, someone had decided to go crazy with a bucket of red paint, opting to write the word _MURDERERS_ on the side of the Garrison, for all to see. Why? You didn’t know, but in that moment, something clicked inside of you—

The Shelby’s were most definitely a gang; a gang that might have _murdered_.

Had Thomas Shelby _killed_ people? Had John? Had Arthur?

Working behind the bar at the Garrison meant you saw them almost every day, but not in a light that would have ever lead you to believe that they were killers. You mentally kicked yourself for being so naïve. This wasn’t fucking Goring; this was Birmingham; this was Small Heath. You were effectively on a different planet. A planet populated by money hungry murderers, thieves, rapists.

“Mr. Shelby, I—,” Harry began, but Thomas raised a hand to shut him up. He looked positively seething.

“Get it _off_. _Now!_ ” Harry nodded frantically and rushed back inside. That’s when Thomas turned to you, pointing directly in your face. “ _You_ , get me a drink.” You stared at him blankly, before turning on your heels quickly back towards the entrance. You slipped behind the bar and grabbed a glass as Thomas bombarded back into the pub, running a hand through his hair in distress. You grabbed the scotch and poured until the glass was over half full.

He grabbed the glass while you were still pouring, getting whiskey all over his hands. He acted as if it hadn’t happened, downing the entire drink in three large gulps and slamming the glass back down on the bar. He took in a breath, staring at the wall beyond you. “Not good for business.” He let out, quietly. You didn’t know if he was talking to himself or you until his demeanour changed. “Did you buy a new skirt yet?”

Every day since your first shift, Thomas had reminded you to buy a new skirt. You hadn’t had the time to until two days prior. “I’m wearing it today.” Thomas gestured wildly for you come out from behind the bar.

“Let me see.” He said, calmer than before, but you could see the stress in his eyes.

You walked out quickly, standing a few meters from him and dropping your arms to your sides. He looked you up and down once, nodding approvingly. “Good. Good.” He muttered, before turning back to his empty glass. “Refill.” He demanded, but it seemed you took too long to react. He reached for the bottle himself, popping off the cork and pouring an almost full glass of whiskey.

You oversaw his small breakdown, how the veins on his forehead had ever so slightly popped out, how the sweat gathered on his brows and utter lip. You had the strangest sensation to try and calm him down, to comfort him in some way. Seeing people in distress wasn’t exactly one of your favourite things.

“We’ll get it sorted, Tom—,”

“ _Mr. Shelby_. My name to _you_ , is Mr _fucking_ Shelby.” He spat, not bothering to look you in the eye at all. You didn’t know why he said _you_ with such force, you didn’t even want to know what he thought of you. You didn’t react to his words, but you also couldn’t believe you’d accidently just called him Tommy.

You’d never called him by his first name before.

“Mr. Shelby.” You said, sternly, and that’s when his eyes met yours. They were burning red, fire encased his once bright blue, striking eyes. You hadn’t met this Thomas Shelby before, the anger, the rage-filled, the rabid Thomas Shelby. The Thomas Shelby that looked like he could murder someone with his bare hands. He always came across so unbothered, so high and mighty, so relaxed, that you hadn’t even imagined he’d have a side like this.

But everyone had a bad side, it just depended on when it was forced out of hiding—

You didn’t want to think what your bad side would be like, if you ever discovered it.

He downed his drink without saying a word, slamming the glass on the bar and immediately leaving the Garrison, door slamming the same way it always did when he left. You didn’t watch him go, not after the unnecessary rudeness he’d displayed. Not after the face he’d made when he referred to you.

Out of all the questions you’d piled up, only one stuck out to you now—

_Are you a murderer, Mr. Shelby?_

Later, Harry approached you, his cheeks blotched. He slammed a bucket of, now red, water on the floor behind the bar, dropping a sodden red stained cloth in after. “I can’t get the fucking paint off the walls. It just won’t budge.” Harry breathing trembled slightly as he went to wipe his forehead. “Tommy ain’t gonna be happy. I’ll have to go to the paint shop tomorrow and get enough to cover it up. Fucking hell.”

“I saw paint in the cellar last week, why don’t you use that?” You added, hoping to try and ease the situation in some way. Harry practically groaned.

“That was paint for inside, only whites and browns. I need the same grey as the exterior. Hardware shop closes early on Mondays.” He grimaced, and you went back to polishing glasses, a feeling of uneasiness settling over the Garrison.

Harry closed early; hardly anyone had come in all day, including the Shelby’s. At eleven, you sat in your room in silence, a sudden idea emerging in your head. Harry said the paint in the cellar was white and brown—

You could work with that—

You _would_ work with that.

Hastily, you gathered the limited paints and brushes you’d brought with you from home, blacks and oranges and dark blues, and made your way down to the cellar. You dragged the paint cans outside, trying to stay quiet. The street was dark and deserted, but the red shine of _MURDERERS_ could still be seen, even in the dim light.

You tried not to dwell on what would happen tomorrow when the sunlight shone on the Garrison. You tried not to overthink the words that Thomas had shouted at you earlier, making you feel inadequate within yourself.

Without hesitation, you dipped your brush into the can of brown paint and got to work.

-

You worked until the sun began to rise, then made haste inside before anyone could see you. You don’t know what time you got to bed, but thank God for Harry waking you up. At nine, he banged his fists on the door. “[Y/N]! Wake up— fucking wake up! Come downstairs right now.”

You got up suddenly, dressing in whatever clothes you could find, not bothering to check your appearance in the mirror. You almost stumbled down the stairs as you raced into the bar and out the open front door.

Harry stood a few meters from the wall, hands on hips and a more than happy smile on his face. You stood next to him, admiring the work that you’d done last night in almost darkness—

One brunette and one white stallion graced the outer wall of the Garrison, proudly galloping, their manes blowing in the invisible wind, their hooves cropping up dirt from the ground. Despite the light limitations you’d had and your sleep deprivation, seeing the mural in the light of the sun brought a smile to your face. You were proud of your work.

“Not bad, is it?” You said finally, arms crossed against your body. Harry turned to you, gobsmacked.

“ _Not bad?_ This shit should be in a fucking art gallery! If Tommy doesn’t approve of this then the bastard won’t approve of anything. This is fucking brilliant!” Harry was practically jumping up and down on the spot, utterly full of ecstasy.

You wondered about revealing yourself as the artist. You wondered about how the Shelby’s, how _Thomas_ , would take it—

_My name to_ you _, is Mr_ fucking _Shelby._

You immediately shut down any thought of telling them the truth.

“Who did it?” You asked, trying to sound as unbothered as humanly possible. You let out a yawn for un-dramatic effect.

“No fucking clue, but whoever it was, free drinks for life.” Harry said finally, before turning back to the doorway. “Come on, I’ll make coffee. You want some breakfast?”

“Sure,” You replied, feeling happy that Harry looked so relieved, but somewhere deep in your gut, anxiety had begun to rage—

What would the Shelby’s think of it?

The clock struck noon, and your stomach dropped. You busied yourself polishing glasses, waiting for the Shelby’s to arrive like they did every morning. The final chime sounded, and your heart raced, expecting the doors of the Garrison to burst open, for Thomas to be yelling obscenities, screaming at Harry to fetch grey paint, threatening to hurt whoever painted it.

Harry started getting restless at five past the hour. “Wonder where they are...” His voice trailed off as a subtle murmuring could be heard from outside. You looked at each other for a split second before dropping everything and racing to the front door.

Harry opened the door, wide, letting the light glow through the Garrison. What met you was a small crowd of people, all admiring the mural in the sunshine. At the front—

John, Arthur and Thomas—

God forbid, they were all smiling.

Even Thomas had the smallest of grins on his brooding face. John’s grin stretched from ear to ear, Arthur the same.

John caught your eye, his smile widening even more. “What the— _fuck?_ What the fuck!” He yelled, but it was positive. He was astounded. Harry approached the brothers, looking up to admire the mural once more.

“Woke up and it was on the wall, completely covered the other shit. No fucking clue who did it. _Bloody_ amazing.” You took a few seconds to indulge the scene in front of you. All of these people were admiring your work. All of these people _liked_ your work. Even the fucking Shelby clan—

The only downside was that no one knew it was you who did it.

You scanned the crowd, your lips curled, until you caught Thomas—

He was staring at you, his gaze intense, his eyes fluttering over your face. You dropped your smile immediately, but you couldn’t look away. This was a stare you’d never seen before; a stare that truly, _utterly_ scared you; terrified you; frightened you.

But _he_ —

He couldn’t possibly have just guessed it was you. The man didn’t know shit about you, he didn’t know your hobbies or your life. All he knew was where you used to live, that you didn’t have any bar experience until a month ago, that you’d left home with just a suitcase and the clothes on your back.

This was _stupid_. He didn’t know it was you, he was simply staring. You were overthinking this entire situation—

You looked away from him quickly, shuffling on your feet and heading back inside the pub.

You checked your apron was tied tightly enough as you took your position behind the bar, resting your arms on the top and trying to stretch the sleep deprivation out of you.

“Tired?” His voice struck through the air. You hadn’t even heard him come in. Thomas approached the bar, fingers plucking a cigarette from the pack and placing it between his lips. You perked up as best you could.

“This is a tiring job, Mr. Shelby.” He let out a soft chuckle and you found yourself gulping nervously. Before he lit his cigarette, he plucked another from the pack and held it out for you. You took it, placing it between your lips. You watched as Thomas struck a match and held it out for you to light first. You leant forward into the fire until it burned the end of your stick, then inhaled deeply.

You shut your eyes for a few seconds, savouring your first smoke of the day. The first was always the best; it was as if you could feel the nicotine running through your blood, filling your body with some kind of strange warmth.

“Tommy,” Your eyes shot open and were immediately met with his own. He took a drag of his cigarette nonchalantly. “Tommy is fine.” Smoke left his mouth as he spoke, encasing the both of you. You wouldn’t dare allow yourself to speak, afraid of what kind of shit would pour out—

_Oh, so it’s not Mr fucking Shelby anymore?_

_Changed your mind, huh,_ Tommy _?_

_Are you a murderer,_ Tommy _?_

He took another long drag and exhaled slowly. “I’ll be here at seven. It’s about time we had a chat.” You didn’t reply, but simply took another drag as he left through the open door, his shoes hitting the wooden floor and sending jolts through you with every bang.

Through the course of the day, you tried to work out approximately how much sleep you’d actually had. You settled upon two to three hours, at most, before Harry had woken you up. Working a twelve-hour shift on that amount of sleep hadn’t phased you until about 3pm; that’s when you were ready to _sleep_.

Four hours until Tommy wanted a chat with you; four hours until you’d be sat in the Shelby’s private room with a could be murderer; with the man that you were afraid could divulge you from a single stare.

You doubted he’d arrange a chat just to discuss whether or not you’d painted the mural. Tommy was the type of person to use his time wisely. You tried not to think too hard about what he wanted to discuss, but when it came to the thought of Thomas Shelby and you being alone in a room together, your anxiety bubbled to maximum.

The Garrison had been busy today, thanks to their new mural, which thankfully meant you were always on your feet doing something or other. If you stopped for even a minute, you could feel your eyelids drooping. You lost count of how many cigarettes you smoked to keep yourself busy, but when you’d begun the day you had a full packet; only three were left.

You fumbled as you plucked another from the packet, clumsily striking a match and lighting the end. The clock chimed seven, and Tommy Shelby burst through the Garrison doors. You’d zoned out staring at the wall and almost didn’t notice when he approached the bar, pulling his cap off. “[Y/N],” He said once, and as his voice hit your ears you came back down to Earth.

You glanced at him, cigarette burned down to the filter, unsmoked, in your hands, before perking up. “Oh, right—,” You mumbled, stomping out your cigarette. “Drink?” You asked, and Tommy nodded towards a bottle of gin. You grabbed it from the shelf, placing it on the bar top. He grabbed the bottle swiftly.

“Two glasses. Come on,” You grabbed two glasses and rounded the bar as he made a B-line for the private room, opening the door and holding it for you.

You entered the room, taking it all in. It was much smaller than you’d realised. Seeing it through the small window this whole time had made you believe it was larger. Benches lined the walls, and in the centre sat a table. “Please, sit,” Tommy gestured for you to sit. You placed the glasses on the table as you sat, your knees clicking slightly. As soon as you leaned back, a wave of tiredness hit you like a racehorse. You forced yourself to sit up straight, to focus on Tommy as he poured two glasses of gin, sliding one towards you.

You took it, taking a small sip. The gin cascaded down your throat warmly, upping your energy levels ever so slightly. You turned towards Tommy, who was lighting another cigarette. You didn’t think you’d ever seen him without one dangling from his teeth. Silently, he retrieved a newspaper clipping from his inside pocket and placed it in front of you.

The article was on a recent auction; the auction for a famous painting. You skimmed the passage—

It was sold for over £200,000.

You let out a huff. “Jesus, that’s a lot.”

“Yes, it is.” Tommy replied, gazing at your expression. Your brain wasn’t working at one-hundred percent capacity, so you totally missed where the conversation was going. You simply glanced at Tommy timidly, taking a sip of your drink once more. “[Y/N], I know you painted those stallions.”

You almost choked on your gin, but managed to swallow it. So, he _did_ guess.

“What brought you to that bloody conclusion?” You didn’t know why, but you tried to play dim. You tried to act dumb. Tommy simply curled his lip and took another drag, amused. You slumped your shoulders immediately, giving up your act mere seconds after you’d begun it. You cracked even before he’d tried to pry the truth from you. “How the _fuck_ did you work that out, Tommy?”

Tommy. That was the first time you’d said his first name.

It sounded distorted coming from your mouth. Tommy seemed like such a playful name for a man such as Thomas fucking Shelby.

“Come on, who else could it have been? Harry? Not fucking likely.” He chuckled as he took another drag. You tried not to sulk. “You’re tired, too. Must have been up most of the night. Can see the dark circles under your eyes.” That made you scoff.

“Just what every woman wants to hear, thanks.” You took another sip of gin and refrained from laughing at this entire conversation. You knew this was just the surface. Tommy took a gulp of his own drink, stabbing the butt of his cigarette out in an ashtray.

“Painting, you’re good at it.”

“I’ve done it for a few years, but I wouldn’t say I’m a professional.”

“That wasn’t a question.” You met his eyes and shot him a furrowed look—

Now, it clicked—

You knew what he wanted you to do. The article made sense.

“You want me to forge paintings, don’t you?” He pulled two cigarettes from his pack, placing one in his mouth and handing one to you.

“Smart lass.” He struck a match, lighting your cigarette and then his own. “One sold for a quarter of that price, and Shelby Brothers LTD would have enough to expand, _and_ beyond.”

A red flag had appeared beside Tommy, and it was difficult not to notice. Forgery was illegal, very illegal. You’d only been here a month, you’d just begun to get fully settled, and suddenly Tommy was serving you this job on a silver platter—

A job that was very much _outside_ of the law.

Until a month ago, you’d never smoked, you’d never drank, you’d never had to deal with half the fucking shit that happened daily in the Garrison. The comments, the drunkards, the possibility of sexual harassment and abuse whenever you walked downstairs to clock into work.

It was obvious that Tommy sensed the uneasiness within your silence, but you weren’t ready to simply agree, no questions asked. You contemplated what he’d say if you asked one of your burning questions, but you figured now was as good a time as any.

You took a long drag of your cigarette and spoke confidently. “Did you ask the last barmaid to commit a crime, as well?”

The look on Tommy’s face showed nothing of what he was feeling, but you knew you’d surprised him. You knew there had to be something that happened in the past that made him so afraid to hire a new barmaid. You knew that something must have happened for him to be so hostile about the entire situation.

Tommy took his time to reply, stalling by smoking some more, drinking some more, looking at the article once more. Then, he nodded his head once. “I didn’t ask her, I hired her.” He let out a puff of smoke. “She worked for the company under contract. She was under our protection, as you will be if you agree to this.”

“Am I not already under your protection as a barmaid?” You asked bluntly.

“No barmaid is protected, [Y/N]. You should know that better than anyone.” You respected that he didn’t lie to you. He was right— you couldn’t know what would happen here one day to the next, but you expected that would be ten times worse if you agreed to this job.

“Did she stay protected?” You said, and Tommy’s face dropped. He scanned the ashtray in front of him, suddenly interested in the cigarette butts. He didn’t look at you when he spoke.

“She got on a train to London and never looked back.”

You stopped yourself from questioning further. The way Tommy spoke told you this wasn’t to be discussed anymore. A pang of sympathy passed through you, forcing you to look down at your hands. When you looked up again, his gaze was already on you. You didn’t look away—

Neither of you did.

It was an unspoken understanding. Thomas Shelby had got his heart broken. You didn’t know how, or by whom, but you knew it. His eyes showed a lovesick boy, encased in glass, unable to get out—

But they showed you something else; the truth. She was protected, she was safe, under the watchful eye of the Shelby’s, knowing that if anything were to have happened, they’d get her back to safety.

“May I sleep on it?” You said, finally, eyes still plastered on his. He stubbed his cigarette out, finishing his gin.

“You may.” He agreed. You nodded at him, thankful that he’d let you think about it, thankful for telling you at least something true about himself, finally. “Take the rest of the night off. Get back the sleep you lost last night.” He added, and you sent him an appreciative smile.

He grabbed the bottle of gin, rising from his chair and opening the door. You followed suit, grabbing the glasses and following him back into the main room. He placed the gin on the bar, turning back to you with his hands outstretched. You handed him the empty glasses, which he placed next to the gin.

Standing up had sent a wave of exhaustion over you. You felt fuzzy, dehydrated, on the brink of an absolute collapse. You’d almost been awake for twenty-four hours, on two hours of sleep. This wasn’t ideal for someone who worked six days a week.

As you looked up at him, Tommy placed his cap back on his head, but didn’t make his way to the door just yet. He lingered by the bar a tad longer, so much so you sent him a quizzical look. He took in a breath, straightening out his sleeves. “Thank you, for the mural. It’s beautiful.”

You nodded at him once. “You’re welcome.” Your voice came out as coarse as anything. Tommy placed a gentle hand on your shoulder. You tried not to blush in any capacity.

“Go to bed. You bloody need it.” You nodded again, and he removed his grip from you.

Your feet dragged on the floor as you made your way to your room, Tommy’s stare lingering on your back, before you heard the Garrison doors slam shut.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This where it starts to get INTERESTING, folks.

You slept the whole night through and woke just as the sun began to rise. You’d been an early riser back in Berkshire, but the work at the Garrison was so overtiring that you hadn’t been able to rise any time before 9am since you’d arrived in Birmingham.

You shuffled your curtains open, peering out the window at the gradually lightening sky. There were pinks and yellows mulled together, clouds whisked around them like Tommy’s constant cigarette smoke bubble.

It dawned on you then that you had no idea where the Shelby Brothers betting shop actually was. You’d only ever stayed close to the Garrison since you came to Brum, only going as far to the limited shops a five-minute walk away to get yourself a new skirt. You hadn’t once explored the area, too turned off by the grime and the darkness and the fire; there was fire everywhere in this industrial town. It was warm and sticky and black smoke stuck to your skin and throat if you took in too large a breath—

But you _wanted_ to see more.

It was about time.

Besides, you had to give Tommy your answer about the job proposition.

You’d spent an hour last night, lying in bed, thinking about what you and Tommy had discussed before. He wanted you to forge a painting for the black market, he wanted you to break the fucking law. If you were found out, you’d no doubt be arrested, put in jail, but Tommy ensured your protection if you chose to take the job.

_She got on a train to London and never looked back._

Why did she go? Why did she never look back?

You knew Tommy wasn’t lying about protecting you, you could see the truth within his striking blue eyes; but you still wondered about who she was—

The woman that broke Thomas Shelby’s heart.

You’d decided to say yes. This was art, this was what you loved doing, and you’d actually be getting paid for it. Still, no one would know you were the original artist, but that didn’t so much concern you anymore; you didn’t care if you were recognised, as long as you got to continue painting.

By your guess, it was just past 7am. The sun cast a faint glow over the bustling town of Birmingham, and you could hear the first few pumps of machinery, the first few clangs of metal upon metal. You guessed the Shelby’s would be awake by 8am, they all seemed like early risers, despite their obvious problems with alcohol consumption and smoking.

You washed and dressed yourself, taking in the morning sun, before you grabbed your long coat and made your way downstairs. Harry was already in the back kitchen, pouring himself a cuppa. “Harry, I’ll be back soon, going to the Shelby’s.” He was sluggish until you mentioned the Shelby’s, that’s when he whipped his stare towards you.

“Why’re you going there?”

You shrugged. “Got to talk to Tommy about something. Besides, I’ve never really left the Garrison yet. Wanted a walk.” Harry almost grimaced.

“Just— be careful. Just because the sun is up doesn’t mean people ain’t the Devil’s spawn. Quickest way to the Shelby’s is straight down the road, left at the distillery. Number fourteen when you get to the row of houses.” You nodded in thanks, leaving him to his breakfast.

Leaving the Garrison was exciting, but you kept Harry’s warning in the back of your mind. You’d already worked out the kind of people that lived here, thanks to working behind the bar.

The ground was covered in slick gravel, making your footsteps crunch whenever you strode forward. Smoke billowed from chimney to chimney, filling the air with a layer of grey, dimming down the blue sky. One thing you immediately noticed was the absence of wildlife—

Trees, birds, even _flies_ weren’t a thing you could spot.

Too much pollution, or perhaps wildlife just knew this wasn’t the place for them to live.

You reached the distillery Harry mentioned, a gin distillery, and made a left after their warehouse. You’d never walked this far out from the pub, and the scenery suddenly changed. Instead of bustling streets of cars and workers, rows upon rows of terraced houses appeared themselves to you.

They were all black or grey, mimicking each other and the grey of Birmingham itself. Children and mothers, fathers going off to work, bankers, lawyers, bakers, merchants, all mingled as they took the short walk into the centre of town to work. On the left side of the street, a crowd of men had gathered outside one of the houses—

Number fourteen. Shelby Brothers LTD.

As you approached the house, the clock chimed for 8am, and you saw John Shelby emerge, cap donned, suit ironed. “Alright— _alright_. In you get!” He yelled, and the crowd made their way inside in a huddle, almost bombarding John out of the way.

You approached him as the last few men trickled inside and took a peek inside. “Is business always this booming?” You chuckled, and John caught your eye, sending you a small smile.

“[Y/N], mornin’,” He glanced inside. “Usually, yes. Ever since we got our licence, we’ve gone up in the ranks. Bloody brilliant.”

“Congratulations,” You added, as he turned back to you. “Is Tommy in?” You asked, but John’s brow furrowed.

“Yeah, in the house. Wait here, I’ll let you into number twelve.” John jogged inside, and you glanced towards the neighbouring house, strolling towards the sage green door. You waited for John, tapping your shoes on the gravel and looking towards the floor. The door flew open, and you were met with Tommy Shelby’s stare. You didn’t say a word, neither did he, as he ushered you inside.

He slammed the door shut after you were safely inside and before you knew it, he’d grabbed your arm and pulled you to the side, away from the kitchen that lead to the betting shop. “Don’t suppose you’re simply here for a _visit_ , are you?” He chided. You shot him a confused look.

“I’m here about yesterday. Just thought I’d take a morning walk, is all.” Tommy sent you a stern hushing noise, pulling you further into the corner. “What the _fuck_ , Tommy?” You whispered, not wanting him to pull on your arm any further. He brought his face closer to yours, his eyes roaming around the entryway, before settling on the stairs, then shooting back to you.

“Did you see anyone else when you arrived?”

“John, opening the shop.” Tommy muttered _fuck_ under his breath, but finally pulled you out of the corner and towards the kitchen. You stared at him with confusion and gentle rising anger, unsure what the hell he was so concerned about. You both arrived at the door to the kitchen, meeting the eyes of Polly and John as they sat at the table having breakfast.

You yanked your arm away from Tommy forcefully, causing him to shoot an annoyed look at you. You simply shot him a glare back, before sending a smile towards the other Shelby’s. “Morning, Poll,” You said, and her bemused look turned into a smile. She got up suddenly, scuffing her chair on the floorboards.

“Tea?” She asked, and you nodded kindly. John motioned for you to take a seat as you stepped further into the room. You sat and shrugged off your coat, Polly placing a mug of tea in front of you. “This is a nice surprise. What brings you here?” She asked, and you could immediately feel Tommy’s stare on your back.

You contemplated your options. It was evident that Tommy didn’t want people to know about the chat you had yesterday, what with his frantic behaviour after letting you inside and the overthinking of making sure John saw you again inside. A part of you savoured the fact that you were in the know and others weren’t, but you knew pushing Tommy’s buttons was a sure-fire way to get shouted at, or worse.

“I haven’t ever really walked through Small Heath before. I was up early, thought I’d go for a morning walk.” You sipped your tea, feeling Tommy’s intense stare lessen on your back.

“You needed Tommy, right?” John added, his eyes scanning his brother sceptically in the doorway, before hitting you with the same expression. Tommy’s stare burned on your neck again. Shit.

You thought quickly, taking the mug away from your lips and sending John an unbothered look. “I came to ask about getting paid early. I wanted to fix the stove in the flat above the Garrison. It takes forever to light.” You turned your stare towards Tommy. He leaned against the doorframe nonchalantly, letting out a breath he’d been holding.

“How much pay did you need?” He asked, bluntly, his eyes boring into you sternly.

“Just for the last week.” He sent you a small nod.

“Come upstairs, I’ll gather it together.” With that he immediately left for the stairs in the entryway. You took a big gulp of tea, grabbed your belongings and sent smiles to John and Polly again, before following Tommy up the stairs, without a word.

You followed him down the hall until he shoved open the door to a room; his bedroom. He shut the door, gently this time. You stood awkwardly in the room, taking in the striped wallpaper and paintings hanging on the wall. Two candlesticks sat on a shelf above an unlit fireplace, a dresser with a wash bowl and mirror stood to the right of it, a single bed shoved into the corner.

Tommy motioned for you to sit on the bed and you did so in silence. You watched as he lit a cigarette, smoke filling the room. He stayed silent, casting a tense atmosphere over the space. You swallowed nervously, but told yourself to speak.

“What was that all about, Mr. Shelby?” You said blankly, but even you noticed the tinge of annoyance within your voice. Now you knew that he’d had that chat with you without his family knowing, you wanted to know why. You shot him a firm stare. Tommy shuffled on his floorboards, pacing.

“My family isn’t aware of certain discussions I have in the works, currently.” He let out, and you couldn’t help but scoff.

“Well, that much is obvious.” You muttered. He pulled a stool out from the corner, bringing it over to sit opposite you. He sat, his knees almost touching yours.

“Have you decided?” He asked, his voice noticeably quieter than before. In that moment, something washed over you. Tommy Shelby was hiding things from his _family_ , from _you_. You still had no idea what their full business entailed. Owning the Garrison and the betting shop was all you were aware of—

But that _burning_ question—

_Are you a murderer,_ Tommy?

You wanted to know if it was true, before you were signed under contract with no way out.

But you were afraid of what the answer was—

You were afraid of the _entire_ Shelby clan.

“I have conditions,” You said finally, and in a burst of adrenaline you grabbed the cigarette from Tommy’s fingers, placing it between your lips and inhaling. “Would you like to hear them?” You asked, the smoke blowing back into Tommy’s face.

The stare he sent you wasn’t angry; it was more like he was _impressed_.

“Very much,” He replied, his voice low and rough. You tried to act like this was exactly what you’d wanted him to say, but you were _amazed_ that he was listening to you. Guess the Shelby’s were rubbing off on you.

You tried to guess what the words would feel like coming from your mouth. You tried to move your tongue to speak them, but you _couldn’t_ —

It was like something had your lips taped shut—

Permitting you from saying those words—

From asking Thomas Shelby if he had _killed_ —

“I need to know the facts of what I’m getting myself into, if I commit to this.” You blurted out, taking another drag to steady yourself. You refused to meet Tommy’s eye. “I need to know what the Shelby Brothers _do_ , Tommy. I need to know what _you_ do.”

He paused, before taking back the cigarette you took from him and clenching it between his teeth, taking a drag himself. He held the smoke for a long time. You were afraid he’d start choking, but as he breathed out, he took the cigarette in his fingers and placed it back between your lips.

You were too distracted from him being so close to inhale.

His eyes peered into your own, trying to divulge your every thought once more, leaving you utterly speechless.

“Murderers,” He began, and your heart _stopped_. “You want to know if we’re murderers.” The way his eyes scanned your face, trailing down to your hands clasped in your lap, traversing down to the floor, focusing on the way you’d crossed your legs—

You had to get out.

_Now._

Without a word you shot up, the cigarette dropping from your lips onto the floorboards below. You shrugged your coat on quickly as you opened his bedroom door and rushed down the stairs, headed for the exit. As soon as you were outside, you felt Tommy’s burning stare on your neck. You dared a look into the upstairs window—

Tommy stood, peering down at you, the cigarette you’d dropped dangling from his lips. You looked away before your eyes started to well, and began running, as fast as your legs could carry you, all the way past the distillery, sprinting down the street until you reached the Garrison. You pulled the doors open frantically, passing Harry as he polished glasses behind the bar.

“[Y/N]?” He asked, a hint of worry within his voice. He started towards you as you began the ascent towards your flat. “Are you okay?” He shouted slightly. You stopped for a few seconds, not turning to face him.

“I can’t work today. I don’t feel well.” You stuttered out; your breathing rapid. You waited for Harry to respond.

“Okay...” He trailed off, but you didn’t wait for him to say more before you continued up the stairs to your flat, slamming the door and locking it clumsily.

Quickly, you dropped to the floor and slid the suitcase out from under your bed, opening it up and revealing what you wanted to see—

Your father’s revolver wrapped in one of your skirts. You unwrapped it slowly as your hands trembled, picking up the gun and laying your fingers over the cold metal. You traced a fingernail over the safety, the barrel, the trigger—

_Tommy Shelby has definitely fired a gun_.

You hadn’t even asked what you truly wanted to, but he’d figured it all out. He’d figured _you_ out. And it was _terrifying_ —

_Frightening_ —

_Sickening_ —

Without even answering the question, he’d told you the truth—

Thomas Shelby was a murderer.

And he had you in the palm of his hand.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOW IT'S GETTING REAL SPICY.

You stayed confined to your room all day. You tried to sleep, but you couldn’t. Every time you closed your eyes you were reminded of Tommy’s stare, but it had distorted—

Replaced by a blood thirsty killer, his face splattered with red, his eyes hungry.

How had everything changed so much since last night? Since he’d sent you to bed? Since he’d wanted to hire you for your art abilities? Since he’d—

You had to _stop_.

You knew nothing about Thomas Shelby at all. You’d known nothing apart from what he’d revealed of himself, and the more you’d got curious, the more you’d realised he was not a man you needed around you.

He was blunt and cunning, overly mysterious and unbothered, standing so nonchalantly against a fucking doorframe or at the fucking bar, having another fucking cigarette and looking at you like _that_ once more. You couldn’t stand it anymore.

You found that the walls of your room had begun to crumble, to suffocate you. Your breathing accelerated; short, static breaths beginning to hurt your lungs. You didn’t know what time it was, didn’t know that if you went downstairs the Shelby’s might be there drinking more whiskey in their private room.

But you had to get out of here—

You needed a break, a _release_ , so you could move on from the encounter, so you could work until you’d saved enough to get the fuck out of this place.

You repressed the burning questions about Thomas Shelby as best you could, grabbing as many paints and brushes as you could stuff inside your coat pockets, and slowly unlocking your door.

Making your way down the stairs, you took a sharp left and headed for the cellar, missing the main bar room altogether. It was late, but you still heard muffled voices of customers. You wouldn’t risk being seen by Harry or the Shelby’s. The cellar was cold and damp, but you found the paints you’d used for the horse mural on the floor where you’d put them back that morning.

You opened the back door, immediately being consumed by the darkness of Birmingham.

A few blocks from the Garrison was a blank brick wall, two storeys tall. Old advertisements were still stuck on the brick, but you could work over that.

You didn’t think of the possible dangers of working late at night once more. You didn’t think of the fact that this was just off the main high street and a lot more likely that you’d be spotted. You simply dipped your brush in the brown paint once more, shutting off your surroundings completely.

-

You woke when the sun was high in the sky, dried paint stuck beneath your fingernails, lungs still tired from sprinting back to the Garrison last night.

You’d been spotted, and you’d bolted, disappearing down an alleyway off the high street before whoever it was got hold of you. You were certain they hadn’t seen your face, but it had still been a scary experience.

Not as scary as sitting in Thomas Shelby’s room, smoking his cigarette.

You made it back to the pub in one piece and collapsed into bed, intent on getting at least four hours of sleep this time. You rose when the clock struck eleven and began scrubbing at your hands and clothes, dotted with paint splatters.

The hours had passed faster this time round, fully encased in what you were painting—

A mural of a gun, its barrel loaded and its safety off, firing directly towards the butchers. It was obvious where the thought had come from, but you were pleased to notice that you felt more at ease after getting that image out of your head and down on the wall.

You checked your appearance in the mirror; your dark circles were there, but much less visible than a few days before. You unlocked your door and made your way downstairs, tying your apron around your waist as you went, ready to get back to work, for Harry’s sake.

“There she is,” Harry said as you entered the main room.

He wasn’t speaking to you.

“There she _is_ ,” Tommy repeated, a half-drunk mug of tea in front of him, a just lit cigarette in his fingers. You regarded him as best as you could without showing your surprise, trying not to look directly in his eyes, as you rounded the bar and went to help Harry with the last of the glasses before opening time. “You’re not working today, [Y/N],” Tommy spoke plainly, and you tried not to stop so abruptly. “Need your help with something at the shop.”

“I’m a barmaid,” You began, still refusing to face him. “Not a gambler.”

“Until a month ago you were neither,” He flicked ash onto the bar top. “I’m sure I don’t have to remind you that I employed you and have the power to take that away.” He said it so bluntly, so without heart.

You forced yourself to meet his eye. If he was going to play this game, you’d play right back.

“There’s always an ultimatum with you, isn’t there?” You spat out, but you were untying your apron as you spoke. You couldn’t lose this job, not until you had enough to live a stable life someplace else. Tommy rose from his stool as you walked out from the bar, stubbing his cigarette out where he’d dropped ash before. He peered down at you.

“I’m a businessman.”

“ _Of course_ , you are.” You let out, a faint disgusted chuckle landing on your lips. “Let me grab my coat,” You added bluntly, already making your way back upstairs to your room.

When you got to your room you dropped to the ground, pulling your suitcase out as fast as you could and grabbing your father’s revolver. You stuffed it in your deep coat pocket, making sure the safety was on. It felt heavy when you slipped on your coat. When you put your hands in the pockets the cold metal hit your fingers, making you gasp slightly.

This was just a _precaution_ —

This was what the gun was for; your _safety_ —

You didn’t know what Thomas Shelby was fully capable of, and you didn’t want to know the specifics.

You rushed downstairs once more, joining Tommy by the door. You shot Harry one last look as Tommy held the door open for you, and then you were gone.

As you left the Garrison, Tommy began walking the complete wrong way. “Are we not going to the shop?” You asked, though obviously Tommy had his own ideas. He didn’t reply, but simply kept walking. You had no choice but to follow.

The further you walked the more it clicked—

He was taking you to the wall, the wall you’d painted the night before.

As you approached the wall, you stayed two paces behind Tommy. He looked up at your work, hands in his pockets, taking in every element. The highlights on the barrel, the smoke of the shot, the bullet propelling through the air, ready to kill.

“Well, I wonder who your _muse_ was?” He asked. You almost rolled your eyes. You wanted to be sick.

“What do you want, Mr. Shelby?” You replied timidly, your shoes scraping across the gravel with anxiety. Tommy’s shoes shuffled across the gravel as he turned to face you. You didn’t look up just yet. He struck a match, no doubt lighting yet another cigarette.

“I’ll tell you everything want you want to know.” You scoffed at the floor.

“I don’t want to know _anything_ about you, Mr. Shelby.”

It was a lie—

He knew it was.

“I think this painting proves otherwise, Miss [L/N].” You glanced up at your work again. You knew that Tommy was simply trying to get a rise out of you, but you couldn’t help but think—

_Was_ he your muse?

The horses; the gun—

They were _both_ about him.

“How did you hear about it?” You asked, gesturing to the wall. You wanted the subject to change. Tommy indulged you, for once.

“Poll. Saw it this morning on the way to the market.” He took another drag of his cigarette, and you found yourself drawn to it. You’d forgotten yours back at the Garrison. Tentatively, you stuck your fingers out, gesturing for Tommy to give you a drag.

He regarded you for a second before passing you his cigarette. You inhaled deeply, savouring the feeling.

“Does she know it was me?” Smoke billowed from your mouth.

“She does not,” Tommy replied. He stuck his hand out, mimicking you. You placed the cigarette back within his fingers.

“Only you?” You looked up at him, eyes plastered on his own.

“Only me.” He inched closer as he spoke; you didn’t know whether you felt safer or more in danger. You nodded quickly, taking a step back, choosing to move your gaze to your other surroundings.

As you looked further down the street, you saw someone approaching fast. They got closer, and you realised it was John—sprinting as fast as he could—

“Tommy!” He yelled, his voice coarse and frantic. Tommy immediately looked towards him, expression of utter stone. “It’s Arthur, got on the bad side of some lads at the boxing ri—,”

“Where is he?” Tommy strode towards a spluttering John, placing a haste hand on his heaving shoulders.

“Alleyway behind their warehouse.” John spoke in breathy puffs. Sprinting for a more than full-time smoker must not be easy. You looked from Tommy to John and back again. Tommy settled his gaze on you and stopped, sending you the most serious of looks you’d ever seen.

“Stay here. John, keep her safe.” You went to object, but Tommy was already sprinting away, coat tails whipping behind him, gravel cropping up beneath him.

You looked towards John, still incapacitated from running so fast. You placed a reassuring hand on his back as he straightened out, breathing deeply still.

Your mind raced, thoughts bombarding through your skull, but one thing stuck out to you, as clear as day—

_Follow Tommy._

“I’m sorry for this, John,” You said finally. His confused eyes hit yours suddenly.

In one motion, your knee landed deep in his scrotum, an ugly groan bursting from his mouth. He collapsed to the floor as you were already sprinting as fast as you could. You didn’t dare look back, but focused on what the fuck you were going to do when you reached Tommy and Arthur by the boxing ring. Arthur’s words from your first day in Birmingham rang through your skull— _If any man tries to give it to ya, give him a firm knee to the balls_ —

John had never done anything wrong to you, in fact, he’d been the nicest out of all the men you knew it this town—

And you’d just kneed him in the balls.

You couldn’t risk him trying to stop you, so you’d much rather deal with the aftermath of hurting him, instead.

You didn’t stop sprinting until you rounded the alleyway next to the boxing ring. Booming voices pierced your ears as you slowed to a walk, then even slower. You stayed close to the wall, knowing they were at the end of the alleyway, around the corner to the left. Inching closer, you heard the unmistakable cock of a gun—

“Keels, come on, now,” Tommy’s steady voice cut through the other noise. “It was a disagreement, something that doesn’t need to end like this.”

“Your fucking brother cheated us out, taking those bets knowing what would fucking happen—,”

“He didn’t fucking know it would happen. Your fighter has been inconsistent since the first day he arrived in the ring, _you_ know that. This was a blip—,”

“No, you shut the _fuck up_ , Tommy Shelby. You Peaky _fucking_ Blinder,” You stopped abruptly, trying to work out what he’d just called Tommy. A Peaky Blinder—

You were reminded of last week in the Garrison, Arthur yelling joyously in the Shelby’s private room— “By order of the _Peaky Blinders!_ ”

“You think you run this town, run its people. You’re a con-man and a fucking murderer, Tommy. Everyone knows what the fuck you did to Billy Kimber. _Everyone_ ,” Your heart stopped, taking in the words. You’d known, you _had_ , but hearing it out loud, hearing that it was _true_ ; that Tommy had killed—

It _didn’t_ scare you, in that moment—

And you didn’t know why.

“Keels—,” Tommy began, but was immediately cut off.

“Enough. I’m gonna _fucking kill you_ , Shelby. I’m gonna—,”

Time slowed, but your feet were moving, _fast_. Your hand gripped the revolver in your pocket sturdily, pulling it out just as you rounded the corner, exposing yourself—

Tommy turned to look at you, hands high above his head. Arthur was slumped, bloodied and bruised, while two burly men held him up. A man pointed a gun in front of Tommy’s forehead, the safety off on his pistol.

You clicked the safety off of your gun, focusing on the clicking sound it made as the bullet was ready to fire. Your finger twitched on the trigger.

“No, you’re fucking not.” You spoke, but the voice that came out wasn’t yours. It was acidic, full of venom and some kind of darkness that you’d never thought you contained.

Your arms trembled without control, but you stayed put, eyes plastered on the man with the gun pointed directly at Tommy. The man regarded you, amused. He laughed once, an ugly and booming laugh, spittle flying from his mouth. “Who the fuck is this?” He turned back to Tommy. “Your whore?”

The word _whore_ hit your ears and burned.

That word—

That _fucking_ word—

You’d heard it every day since you’d arrived in this godforsaken town.

_No more._

Without hesitation, you aimed the gun to the opposite wall and pulled the trigger. The bullet hit the brick, cracking the wall open and sending shrapnel in every direction. Every man present raised their arms as protection, including the gunman. You watched as the pistol slipped from his grasp, falling to the floor with a clang—

You strode forward before he could pick it up, putting yourself between Tommy and him, pointing the gun directly at his chest. “Call me a whore one more _fucking_ time and I’ll shoot you. _Got it?_ ”

Your words didn’t tremble as they left your mouth, but your legs had turned to _jelly_. You didn’t know how the hell you were still standing. You continued to stand your ground, the man’s hands slowly coming up to above his head. He nodded quick and fast.

Behind you, gravel scraped as Tommy picked up the gun from the floor. He opened the chamber—

There were no bullets inside.

“Take this as a lesson, boys. Don’t bite off more than you can chew,” He nodded in your direction before coming forward and sending a final look at all three men. “I suggest you get the fuck out of here,”

The two men holding Arthur dropped him to the floor, joining their associate in sprinting as far away from the scene as possible. They rounded the corner; gone.

You suddenly dropped to the floor, knees scuffing on the gravel, gun shaking in your hands. You stared, wide-eyed, at the wall in front of you as your entire body convulsed with buzzing energy. You didn’t even notice when Tommy knelt down to your level, his hands gently grasping the revolver from your hands. “Wait—,” You spoke suddenly, taking the gun back again. Trembling, you turned the safety on, and dropped the gun calmly in Tommy’s open hands. You felt tears fall from your eyes abruptly, but didn’t wipe them away.

You kept your stare on the wall as John rounded the corner, limping. He stopped, overseeing the scene in front of him. “Fucking _hell_ ,” He spat out. Tommy kept his gaze on you.

“Take Arthur back to the house.” He said calmly. John didn’t need telling twice. He hobbled over to Arthur and hoisted him up, wrapping one arm round his waist and the other below his shoulders. They stumbled back around the corner, their footsteps disappearing.

The two of you stayed silent, until you realised that you’d been holding in a breath. You spluttered as you breathed out, your shaky breaths quickly turning into wracking sobs. Tommy stayed knelt next to you as you had your release, all the while his eyes traversing over every inch of you.

You don’t know how long you were there, just sitting, crying, wanting to scream. But soon, there were no tears left. There were no sobs that needed to escape. You wiped your face with your coat quickly, finally turning to look at the middle Shelby brother.

His eyes were soft— the softest you’d ever seen them be. He didn’t look at you in anger, but with a kindness that you didn’t know was possible for such a man.

“I’ll do it,” You whispered quickly, your voice almost raw. “I’ll forge the painting.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Get used to me updating multiple times a day, I am nothing if not consistent.

Polly placed a mug of tea in front of you. You sat in the Shelby’s kitchen at number twelve, John, Arthur, Polly and Tommy standing and sitting around you in silence.

Tommy had hoisted you from the floor a few minutes after you’d agreed to paint, looping his arm through yours and popping his cap on your head, hiding your face. He’d pocketed your father’s gun, no doubt having questions about why the hell you had a gun in the first place.

You wondered what came over you, back there, standing with your feet parallel to your shoulders, gun pointed at an alive human being. You thought about how the hell you had the nerve to shoot the wall as a scare tactic, without truly knowing what the man with the other gun could have done to you. You tried not to think about what John, Arthur and Polly thought of you currently, shoulders slumped low in your chair, eyes staring down at the table, fingers tapping on the hot mug of tea—

Tommy leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, your father’s revolver dangling from his right hand. He cleared his throat and took a step forward, smacking the gun down on the kitchen table. You flinched at the surprise, your body going rigid.

“Jesus, Tommy.” Polly said, her brows furrowed. She sent a concerned look your way. “Don’t traumatise her more than she already bloody is.” Tommy went back to his position against the counter.

“That’s the thing, Poll. How do we know she’s really traumatised?” John shot his stare up to his older brother, his face distorted with hurt.

“What— you think she’s another spy? Like Grace?” It clicked; the woman who broke Tommy’s heart was called Grace; she’d stabbed them all in the back. You didn’t look up as John’s stare turned to you; you couldn’t.

They thought you were a liar; the enemy; not who you said you are.

How—

_How could they think that?_

Somewhere inside you wanted to scoff, to perk up, to look at them all with an amused grin. _“You really think I’m a fucking spy? That’s fucking hilarious, really.”_ But you stayed silent, hands trailing to your scuffed knees and gravel torn skirt.

Two skirts in a month—

A record.

Arthur shuffled in his chair slowly, letting out painful moans in bursts, until he’d relaxed once more. Polly had done her best to patch him up when John had dragged him home, but his face was red and bruised, cuts stapled all across his cheekbones. And that was just his face.

“Let’s not jump to conclusions,” He spoke slowly, hands clutching his ribs. “Don’t forget that she saved our skins. Imagine if that lad actually had bullets in his gun?” Tommy looked at his brother with a clenched jaw, his eyes wide. He placed both hands on the table, leaning towards Arthur.

“That’s the thing, Arthur. Where did she get the fucking gun?” He spat venomously.

Your heart pounded with pain.

You had to tell them.

“It was my father’s.” You spoke, finally, after having sat in silence for almost an hour. Your voice was coarse and rough, throat dry from crying and half closed from fear. You dared to look up, your eyes hitting John’s, too afraid to look at Tommy. “He gave it to me the day before he was shipped to France. For protection.”

Everyone stayed silent half a minute more, the cogs whirring in their minds.

“Low fucking blow,” Tommy finally said, his gaze turning to you. What met you was a look similar to when you’d seen him after those words had been painted on the Garrison; but worse, so much worse. He was seething, furious, you could practically hear the blood boiling within him. “How _dare_ you make this about the war. How _fucking dare you_ speak like you’ve _lost_ something—,”

_“I did fucking lose something!”_ You didn’t realise until your chair clattered to the floor that you’d shot up, your face burning red with rage. You balled your fists as your arms dangled by your sides. “You’re not the only one that lost something in this war— you’re not the only one that’ll _never_ be the fucking same.”

You forced yourself to glare, deep into his eyes, not willing to hold anything back any longer. “My father and two elder brothers were drafted in 1915. They were stationed in France, the Somme.” Tommy’s eyes flicked from yours, left to right, his face dropping ever so slightly. “I waited almost _three years_ for them to come back, and—,” You stopped abruptly, the feeling of vomit crawling up your throat making you tremble. You forced yourself to keep going. “Two days before the war ended, a telegram containing all three of their dead in action papers arrived on our doorstep.”

Tears burned their way down your cheeks for the second time that day, but you didn’t wipe them away. You were raging— angry, so fucking angry; so full to the brim of hatred for this war, for this _world_ , for _everyone_ in it—

_For Thomas fucking Shelby._

“No,” You’d lowered your voice to a lethal whisper, directing it straight at Tommy. “How dare _you_ , Thomas Shelby. How _dare you_ steal all the sadness and the anger and take it for yourself,” You raised your voice to a scream. “Without stopping to think about the _fucking drivel that comes out your mouth!_ ”

The tears continued to fall thick and fast, but they weren’t from sadness. Your shoulders shook tremendously, but it wasn’t from fear—

You were angry.

The angriest you’d ever been in your entire life.

All you saw was red as you looked around the Shelby’s kitchen, taking in short, heaving breaths like you’d just sprinted a marathon.

Tommy retracted from his leaned position, standing straight with his arms by his sides. John, Arthur and Polly didn’t dare move, their eyes plastered on Tommy, waiting.

“Out. Everyone, out.” He spoke finally, and Polly and John reluctantly rose from their chairs, grabbing Arthur gently and heading out the double doors to the shop. Polly shot Tommy one last furrowed look at she clicked the doors shut.

You were alone with Thomas Shelby once more.

Tommy grabbed his cigarettes and plucked one from the packet. He hesitated, before offering it to you. When you didn’t take it, he placed it within his lips instead, striking a match and lighting it, smoke coiling around him. He shuffled on his feet and took the seat where Polly was sat prior.

“What regiment?” His voice was soft and low, his gaze focused on the gun, still on the table.

“My father was 104th,” You replied, voice as blunt as you could make it. “Brothers were 112th.”

Tommy took a drag of his cigarette. “I was a tunneller in the 105th.”

You tried not to think about how your father and Tommy were stationed mere miles from each other. You tried not to let him inside your head, to let him get you to forgive him for his wickedness—

But obviously it was useless trying when it came to Thomas Shelby.

You stuck a shaky hand out to him. You thought you saw the hint of a smile on his lips as he handed you his cigarette, but your tears were obscuring your vision. You placed the cigarette between your teeth, taking the longest drag your lungs could handle. When you breathed out, you swiftly moved to another chair, depositing yourself down and crossing your legs.

“Why did you do it?” Tommy asked, his voice a bundle of confused whispers, the anger is his eyes completely gone.

You thought about how to reply—

Why had you done it? Why had you followed him into the jaws of the unknown? Your brain had been scrambled ever since he’d asked you to forge that painting, indecisive about which side to take.

Live an honest life—make a true living—or—

Be within their ranks, in the face of danger at every waking minute—and have the world.

It was the opposite of all you knew, but there was something inside you that craved that feeling. The cold metal of a pistol in your hand, your finger utterly in control of when it would pull the trigger. To _kill_ —you didn’t want to. _Ever_ —but this _adrenaline_ —this way of life—

It was pulling you in faster than you could decide whether you wanted it or not.

You slumped your hand down on the table, defeated for words.

“ _I don’t know_ , Tommy. I don’t _know_ —,” Your voice wobbled. Tears poured from your eyes once more, but you didn’t sob. They simply fell, cascading down your face in waves of confusion, strength, weakness and power.

Tommy slowly leant forward, bringing his hand to your cheek. His thumb caught your tears, brushing them away from beneath your eyes. His touch was gentle—you’d never expected it to be. The swipe of his thumb against your cheek made your neck hairs stand on edge, your eyes searching for something within his own.

You saw a flash—of him. The terror he felt in the tunnels, the obvious struggle he faced on a day to day basis to move on from the damage the war dealt him. His devotion to keeping his family safe, to handing them the best life he could possibly give them.

You closed your eyes, falling slightly into his touch. His hand moved until it found its way to your neck, fingers curling round the back of your head, under your hair, resting on the nape of your neck—

You opened your eyes suddenly, feeling a new kind of warmth within the pit of your stomach. _No_ —

_Not him._

_Not this._

You inched your head to the side, and Tommy retracted his hand from you as if the moment had never happened. The last of your tears dried upon your face, untouched.

“Do you still agree to do it?” He asked, his voice had switched back to normal. “Forge the painting?”

This was how he worked—moments of vulnerability, of emotion that you’d never normally see, of anger that bubbled and boiled and melted his insides, until it calmed down once more, until it all turned back to face value Tommy Shelby—

The damaged man with his walls up far too high, far too thick.

You knew you had to be the same, if you didn’t want to get yourself hurt.

“I said I would, didn’t I?” You took a drag of your cigarette, your hands no longer shaking. Tommy regarded you for a moment before standing up, straightening out his waistcoat and checking his pocket watch.

“I’ll have a contract drawn up.” With that, he grabbed his suit jacket and cap, leaving the kitchen and heading straight out the door of number twelve.

The door slammed shut, and you were left alone in the Shelby’s kitchen—

Your father’s gun glinting as the afternoon sun poured in from the window.

-

Polly leant you a skirt, and John insisted on walking you back to the Garrison. The guilt was present in your gut about earlier. You’d never hit anyone before, let alone directly in a spot where you knew it would hurt.

“I’m sorry about earlier,” You let out finally, turning to look at John with an apologetic stare. He smiled, huffing out a single chuckle.

“You’ve got game, that’s for sure.”

“I don’t know what came over me.”

“Happens a lot in this town. It changes you.” He sniffed, puffing out his chest slightly.

“I—,” You began, but you cut yourself off. You’d wanted to say, “I hope it doesn’t change me for the worse,” but was that really true?

You’d kneed a man in the balls, you’d fired a loaded gun, you’d threatened to shoot someone in cold blood.

“[Y/N],” John began, his voice serious all of a sudden. “This town isn’t very forgiving.” He stopped suddenly, and you followed suit, standing opposite him with a frown on your face. He looked at you somewhat affectionately, the way a brother would look at his younger sister. “You need to be sure that you know what you’re getting yourself tied up in.” You took in his words for a second, before he came closer, resting his hands on your shoulders firmly. You swallowed nervously. “There are people here that’ll kill you without a second thought, if you get on the wrong side of ‘em.”

Something boiled within you. If you didn’t know John and the others the way you did, as somewhat friends, acquaintances, in this god-awful town, would that change?

“People like the Shelby’s, you mean?” John removed his grip from you, sending you the saddest of looks you’d ever seen from him. It answered your question perfectly.

“We have your back.” He added lastly. You sent him a dry look, but flashed appreciative eyes at him, nodding slightly.

“I can walk from here, thank you, John.” Before he could object, you turned on your heels, striding down the street back to the Garrison. He didn’t follow.

You worked at 6pm, despite the fact that you didn’t have to. Harry needed the help and you felt bad for ditching him the day before. It was odd, going back to bar work after the past two days; a lot had changed, within yourself and the way you perceived those around you.

Dealing with the drunkards seemed a hundred times easier now. On a few occasions you’d even managed to get them to back off with your words. Hearing something so offhand come from your mouth to them proved effective, getting them to back off immediately.

It was like a switch had flicked within you—

A lot of people used violence around here to obtain what they wanted, but you knew the spoken word was just as threatening. It was obvious that Tommy’s efforts were rubbing off on you tenfold; his intelligent words, his quick but unbothered retorts. You’d adopted his style, changing it ever so often to send a honeyed smile, laced with something red, their way just for good measure.

The Shelby’s came into the Garrison just after eight, immediately retreating into their private room and yelling demands through the side window. You passed them a bottle of scotch and four glasses, trying not to tut at the fact Arthur was out and about, about to drink far too much booze after the horridness that he’d been inflicted that day. Tommy took the scotch and glasses from the sill, putting them on their table inside. You gave him a curt nod before going back to the main bar, but his arm shot out through the window, fingers latching onto your shirt and tugging you back.

You turned back, slightly stunned, raising your eyebrows at him.

“Be in here at nine. You have business to discuss, with _all_ of the Shelby’s.” You nodded once more, pulling away from his grip and moving swiftly down the bar, his stare still on the back of your neck.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In terms of timelines, this fic is slowly entering into Season Two territory, but not with the same characters. Got it?

You knocked on their door at nine. When it swung open, Polly’s severe stare met you. You gave her a small smile before walking inside, the door being shut behind you. You took the seat next to Polly, opposite Tommy.

John slid a cigarette to you from across the table. Arthur, despite his injuries, poured you a glass of whiskey. You reached over and took the glass before he tried to slide it over to your side of the table.

For a moment you all sat in silence. You watched the smoke from their cigarettes drift about the room and disappear seconds after. Tommy coughed, alerting you to his gaze. He shuffled with his inside pocket, bringing out some documents and putting them on the table.

“This is an official Shelby Brothers LTD contract,” He slid the documents to you. Your fingers grazed the papers, but didn’t open them. He’d finally told the others about his prior proposition to you. You looked back towards Tommy, knowing that he wasn’t done speaking.

You knew what he was about to say.

“Fire away. Ask what you want answered.” Tommy Shelby always stayed true to his word—now you knew that for certain.

You didn’t know where to begin, too afraid of finding out more horrible things about the Shelby’s—

But your brain hadn’t stopped firing questions at you since the first day you’d met the Shelby clan—

This was your chance to be _in the know_.

You glanced at your unlit cigarette, wrapping your fingers around it and placing it between your lips. Polly struck a match, lighting it for you. You breathed in, content on taking your time—you were the centre of attention in this moment, in this room. All of the Shelby’s were utterly focused on you.

“Who are the Peaky Blinders?”

Tommy flicked his cigarette ash in the ashtray. The other Shelby’s stayed silent. “Have you heard of the Sabini’s and the Solomon’s?” He began with a question. You shook your head once. “They,” he exhaled smoke. “Are gangs, family run.”

You took in his words. You hadn’t once thought about the other gangs that lived around these parts, or in the country. You hadn’t once pieced together that they were all somewhat in competition with one another.

“People around here call us, and our men, the Peaky Blinders,” He said finally. You took a sip of whiskey, warmth spreading within you.

“Why is that?” You pressed on. Tommy simply sent a glance at John, who’d gone slightly pale. John dragged his cap to the table, lifting the back flap and revealing a razorblade, sown directly into the fabric.

You tried not to panic. You tried to tell yourself that you weren’t surprised—

“Peaky Blinders,” You said, with more emphasis on the words themselves. You took a drag of your cigarette, letting out a single chuckle of smoke. “ _Funny._ ” You didn’t sound amused, and they all knew you weren’t.

“You gotta understand,” John began. You could tell he didn’t enjoy the reminders of what him and his family actually did, if need be. “It’s a reputation we built up, one that keeps us _safe_ —,”

“And puts you on the radar of other gangs, other bad people who would kill you without a second thought. That’s what you said earlier, wasn’t it, John?” Tommy sent his brother a glare. You realised you’d just sold him out in some way, but you didn’t care in the moment.

These were people who committed morally bad acts, just to live a morally good life—

It was a double-edged sword—

One that you didn’t want to be impaled with.

“I told you before,” Tommy started up again, swilling his drink in its glass. “You sign that contract, and you’re immediately under our protection.”

Arthur grumbled as he straightened himself out. “[Y/N],” He positioned himself face on to you. You reciprocated his thoughtful stare. “You sign that, you’re as good as blood until the job’s done.” You knew from the look in his eyes that he wasn’t lying. You knew the Shelby’s were good at the game they played, but you also knew they wouldn’t lie about something as serious as you committing to a job for them.

You took a large drag of your cigarette, eyes traversing the papers sat in front of you.

Now you knew—

The Shelby’s had killed—

The Shelby’s were a gang—

The Shelby’s were _more_ than dangerous.

But they kept to their word—

They cared deeply for their family, for those that had performed acts for them—

For their friends, their partners, their wives and children—

They would care for you, if and when the time came. They would protect you if things went sour, if the job became an immediate danger to you. They would be by your side.

You left your cigarette dangling from your lips and send Tommy a firm stare.

“Pen,” Was all you said, and the next moment one was deposited in front of you. You picked it up, removing the cap and dropping it on the table. You opened the documents, knowing that they wouldn’t have cheated you out within the writing. You went to sign, but stopped before ink hit paper. 

“After this job is done, I’m not sticking around.” You kept your eyes on Tommy. “I’ll have enough after this to leave for somewhere else— _anywhere_ else—as long as it’s not here. As long as it’s not Birmingham.” John and Arthur frowned, but Tommy refused to leave your gaze, his eyes flashing with something you couldn’t pin down—

You found yourself wishing that it was _hope_ —

Hope that, perhaps, you’d change your mind halfway through the job—

That you’d _stay._

“So be it,” Tommy replied, the finality present in his rough voice. You ignored the thoughts that seconds before had entered your mind. You shoved them right to the back corner of your brain, alongside the warmth you’d felt in your gut earlier that day; Tommy’s fingers grazing your cheek.

You signed the papers without hesitation, folding them up and sliding them back to Tommy in silence. You grabbed your whiskey, bringing the glass to your lips and downing the contents, your eyes squinting shut as the liquor burned on its way down your throat. You slammed the glass back down on the table and turned towards Arthur. “Pour me another, won’t you?”

Arthur’s face lit up, and him and John let out yells of celebration, gripping each other’s shoulders like boys playfighting in the living room. Arthur poured you a large glass of whiskey before filling up the other glasses on the table. “A toast!” He struggled as he hoisted himself up to a standing position. “To being rich.”

John, Polly and Tommy all rose from their seats, peering down at you as they raised their glasses to the sky. You copied them, bringing your glass to join their circle.

“To being _fucking_ rich!” You exclaimed, and everyone clinked their glasses joyously, all of you downing your drinks in one and slamming your glasses back down on the table.

You stayed with the Shelby’s the rest of the night, drinking, listening to their stories, smoking. It was the most fun you’d had since you’d arrived in Birmingham; it was the least lonely you’d felt in over three years. In the back of your mind is where you stored all of the damaging information about what the Shelby’s had actually done—

Still there, but out of sight, for most of the time.

Instead, you chose to focus on them in this light; a family working together to achieve the best life they could; brothers and aunt having a nice evening of fun and games, reminiscing old times and seeing who would laugh the hardest at a joke.

That would be how you would remember them, after this job was through—

After you’d packed your suitcase once more and hopped on the train to who knew fucking where—

Intent on finding your place in this world.

-

Tommy diminished your hours at the Garrison. Now you only worked Fridays and Saturdays, the rest taking priority for you to paint. You sat in the Shelby’s kitchen a few days later, planning your first steps.

“I have connections in London that can get us professional frames. They’re pricy, but the whole point is that we _need_ it to look real.” Tommy donned his glasses, cigarette snug upon his lip, eyes skimming the documents in his hands. “Should have one in three days.”

“I suggest getting two,” You added. “I’ve never done this before, might fuck up the first time around.” He regarded your comment with a curt nod, making a mental note, before passing you the documents.

You skimmed the contents, your eyes falling quickly upon a print of the painting itself—

Thomas Webster’s _The Village Choir._

“It was stolen, from the Victoria and Albert Museum, in 1897. Hasn’t been seen since.” You looked closely at the painting; a detailed scene of a choir singing behind a church tabernacle. There were over ten people present in the painting, all unique to themselves.

This wasn’t going to be a walk in the park.

“This is—wow.” You said, almost speechless, already doubting your own abilities.

John sauntered into the kitchen, smacking you lightly on the shoulder. “You painted those fucking horses in the pitch black, without a bloody reference. You’ll be fine,” He chuckled out the final words, putting you slightly more at ease.

“Speaking of paint, I’ve asked a favour off the boys at Winsor and Newton. Got my hands on their finest oils.” Tommy removed his glasses, folding them neatly back into his breast pocket. “Wanna see them?” You nodded, and followed him up the stairs to his room once more.

He held the door open as you went forward, your eyes hitting the paints that sat atop his single bed. You dropped to the floor, crossing your legs, beginning to shuffle through them. Tommy shot you an amused look behind your back.

He came forward, sitting down on his mattress next to the paints. He picked up one of the tubes, squinting at it.

“Never understood artists,” He stated.

“What’s not to understand?” You replied, picking up a tube of crimson. Tommy flung his tube back into the pile.

“Spending so long on something, just for it to hang on a wall, gathering dust.” You shot him a thoughtful look, fiddling with a tube of burnt ember.

“Artist names live on through their work,” You offered. “People don’t.”

“Your name won’t,” Tommy said suddenly. You knew what he was trying to say; it wasn’t a threat, despite sounding like it.

“I’ve made my peace with knowing I won’t get recognition for my work, Tommy.” You met his eyes. “I wouldn’t have signed on the dotted line if I hadn’t.” He held your gaze a few moments more, before nodding, standing up and straightening his cuffs.

“You’ll be working here from now on,” He stated, and your brows furrowed.

“Why can’t I work at the Garrison?”

“I ensured your protection. If anyone catches on, gets even the smallest bit curious, they’ll know exactly where and who you are.” Your heart dropped slightly as you turned to him, his back turned. “You’ll work here.” He repeated. “Polly picked up some books on Webster from the library. Study, research, for the time it takes the frames to get ‘ere.” He left his room, without so much as a backward glance at you.

You moved your gaze back to the paints, fingers fluttering over the smooth tubes. You’d never had such high-quality paint; it excited you. You looked around Tommy’s room, taking in small details that you hadn’t noticed the last time you were there;

Scuff marks from the stool by his dresser—

His gallantry medals hanging above his bed—

An eroded dent in the wall, stained with dried blood—

You tried to imagine yourself painting here, in Thomas Shelby’s bedroom, for the next month or so. Sun rays pouring in from his small window, overflowed ashtrays of all the cigarettes you were no doubt going to burn through, Tommy leaning in the doorway with his arms crossed, watching you work.

It dawned on you that signing up for this job, and working in the Shelby residents, meant you and Tommy would be seeing a _lot_ more of each other—

You felt yourself blush suddenly and shook your head quickly, bringing your hands to your burning cheeks and furrowing your brows, almost as if you were telling yourself off for even _thinking_ that anything would happen.

You got the sense that Tommy didn’t _do_ women. Not like the romance novels would outline. Not since you knew he’d got his heart broken.

You refrained from thinking further about the subject, too afraid you’d land upon something that would turn yourself jelloid—something far too promiscuous, even for Tommy’s possible standards.

You’d had a boy back in Berkshire once, when you were both fifteen. He was sweet, gentle. Your mother adored him, as did you. But you hadn’t loved him—

You didn’t even _know_ what love entailed. Was there a process to realising you’d fallen in love with someone? Was there a tick list that you were supposed to ensure you’d completed before you were certain?

Either way, you’d never truly got yourself involved with anyone. When your father and brothers went off to war, you cut things off with the boy, too focused on other matters—too focused on when your family would finally come home. You found out a year later that he’d been drafted himself, deployed to the outskirts of Lyon—

You didn’t even know if he was alive—

You’d never heard from him again.

You left Tommy’s room, headed back to the kitchen. The books he’d mentioned before were sat on the table-top, a pot of just made tea and a mug beside them. You sat, letting out a long breath to release some pent-up anxiety.

Grabbing some grips from your skirt pocket, you secured your hair out of your face, and got ready for what would probably be the most difficult month of your life.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [blows kiss to the sky] For the sexual tension in these next few chapters.

When the frames arrived, you held your breath. Tommy placed them on the Shelby’s kitchen table, grunting at their weight. You practically flung yourself upon them, ripping open their minimal packaging and throwing it to the floor.

The frames were guild with gold, cracked slightly around the edges. They looked perfect; identical, even; to that of Thomas Webster’s painting you were about to replicate.

You took a step back, bringing a hand to your forehead in amazement. This was happening—about to happen—you were about to forge a famous painting.

“Three canvases are upstairs, [Y/N], just in case.” Tommy spoke, pulling his cap off and running a hand through his hair. “Need anything else, tell me.” With that he picked up the frames once more, dragging them up the stairs.

Polly shot her gaze to you, red faced and utterly overwhelmed, but too full of excitement to much care. “You know you’re capable of doing this,” She spoke plainly, leaning her elbows on the table and holding her chin. “Do him proud.”

“Thomas Webster, you mean?” You smiled playfully.

“Thomas _Shelby_.” Polly replied, your smile immediately disappearing. You nodded once at her, then left the room, headed upstairs.

Tommy was on one knee, hands skilfully working to set up an easel for you. You stopped, leaning on his doorframe, arms crossed, admiring— _watching_ —him.

“What’s that look?” He spoke. He hadn’t even looked towards you.

“What look?” You replied, your lip pouting a tad.

“There’s always a look with you.” The way he said it wasn’t rude. It was like he was asking himself a question, wanting to delve deeper into what went on inside your head. You raised your chin, going to sit on his mattress, retrieving a cigarette from your pocket.

“I frankly find that _offensive_ , Mr. Shelby.” You were joking, he could tell. He finished up with the easel and rose, plucking a matchbox from his pocket and striking one. He held it before you and you leaned into the flame, inhaling as your cigarette lit. You glanced towards the canvases, lying beneath the easel. “Why three canvases?” You chided, smoke billowing around your head.

“Might fuck up more than once.” You scoffed at his bluntness.

“I’m sure if I fuck up a second time, you’d have kicked me out onto the streets by then.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” His voice changed, you found yourself clutching into his every word. “When a horse is lame, it’s best to shoot it quickly.” You tried not to show him how your heart had just jolted, how the breath had just hitched in your throat. You swallowed down your nerves, taking another drag and holding the smoke in your lungs.

“No one ever _wanted_ to shoot a horse.” You let out, trying to piece together why Tommy had brought the conversation towards this.

“No man shoots a horse because they _want_ to, [Y/N].” He rested a firm gaze on you, his words finally clicking. This wasn’t about horses—this was about killing—about the things that the Shelby’s had done—

They hadn’t wanted it to be like this, but it had worked out this way. They couldn’t do anything about it now. They couldn’t go back, so they charged on. They built up a strong reputation, they showed their unafraid faces to the Small Heath public, they shot horses when they were lame. 

“Got business to attend to. I’ll be back in a few hours.” He said bluntly, before striding out of the room, shutting the door behind him. You were alone—

You wondered if Tommy felt this alone when he shut himself away at night.

You wondered if he was, or had ever been, truly happy.

You took a thoughtful drag on your cigarette, gazing at the paints, the frames, the canvases, that surrounded you. You’d simply have to get used to the isolation of Tommy’s bedroom, it was technically your _office_ , now.

With a nervous huff, you rose from the mattress and began the forgery.

By the time Tommy returned you were covered in paint, his bedroom fumigated with the smell of oils. You’d gripped your hair up into a bun atop your head, it’d proved annoying when you were sizing the painting. You’d propped one of Polly’s books on Tommy’s dresser, open on a double page spread of Thomas Webster’s _The Village Choir._ You used it as a reference, bringing your paint brush out in front of you and squinting, moving your thumb to where you thought a measurement should be, before drawing it in on the canvas.

Tommy knocked once on the door and you mumbled for him to enter, your eyes still plastered on the canvas, hand still blocking out where another choir member should be. The door creaked open revealing the middle Shelby brother. You didn’t acknowledge him, too concentrated on the painting.

He leant against the doorframe, lighting a cigarette as if on cue, before puffing out the smoke. “Have you even moved since I left?” You shook your head at the canvas, a concentrated frown on your face.

The next two weeks were the same. You’d arrive at the Shelby’s in the early morning, stomping up the stairs to Tommy’s room. On a few occasions you’d walked in on him sleeping, stirring him awake. After the first few times you’d stopped apologising—it was his idea to have you work in his room, after all. If Tommy was still sleeping when you arrived now, you’d simply head to the stool and sit down in front of the easel, securing your hair out of your eyes and getting back to work without a word.

Tommy would shuffle in bed before sitting up and rubbing his eyes, not saying a word as he’d slip on his suit over his undergarments and leave the room.

It was an oddly intimate thing to keep happening, while the two of you were also utterly unbothered by it. It was almost _normal_ now, to wake Tommy from his slumber without a care, to both have your morning cigarettes in the comfort of his bedroom. Often, Tommy would come and stand next to you while you began work in the morning, overseeing the progress of the painting in silence. It was comforting—you never once felt pressured to perform while Tommy stood beside you—it was like having someone atop your shoulder, spurring you on.

But Polly was getting annoyed. “She doesn’t even come down for food, it can’t be fucking good for her health around all those oil fumes.” She took a haste drag of her cigarette as Tommy came down the stairs and entered the kitchen. “Thomas, for the love of _God_ ,” she began. “She can’t stay up there _all fucking day_. Tell her she has to come down to eat, at least.”

Tommy smiled, amused, as he took a seat at the table. “She’s driven, Poll. What do you want me to fucking do?” Polly tusked in annoyance, turning her gaze to John.

“John, go and bloody get her.” John flashed her a squished face.

“Why me?”

“Because I said so,” Poll let out, plain but firm, tapping her cigarette aggressively to get the ash off. John reluctantly rose from his seat and began stomping up the stairs. You were still in the zone, utterly encased in the painting that was slowly coming together in front of you. John knocked on the ajar door, poking his head through.

“Poll says come down for lunch,” He said. You hardly acknowledged him.

“Not hungry,” You replied, adding another stroke of paint to the canvas and sitting back, squinting.

“[Y/N], come on,” He entered the room, coming towards you. You flicked your head towards him as he approached you, grabbing the paintbrush from your hand and dropping it to the floor.

“ _Excuse_ me—,” But John didn’t let you finish. He hoisted you over his shoulder easily, holding you in place as you dangled above the ground. “ _John!_ ” You yelled, pushing your palms into his back as he began the descent down the stairs. You scrambled in his grip, but your anger quickly turned to laughter. “Put me the _fuck down_ ,” You let out, but it was almost indecipherable from your chuckles and snorts.

John entered the kitchen, a shit-eating grin on his face. “Got her, Poll.” You blushed, embarrassed, as John stayed standing with you still draped over his shoulder, your _arse_ being the first thing they all saw of you.

You kicked your legs in protest, whacking the back of Tommy’s head with your foot by accident. John and Poll burst with childish snorts as Tommy stuttered forward, shooting an annoyed look to the back of you. John finally let you down, and you smacked him on the back a few times, small smile plastered on your face. “Sorry, Tom,” You muttered, taking the seat next to him and taking a slice of bread from a plate on the table. “What’s wrong with me having a fucking work ethic? All the better for you Shelby’s if I get the painting finished quickly,” You shoved half the slice of bread in your mouth, filling your cheeks in a sulk.

Tommy eyed you as you sulked, before going back to skimming the newspaper in front of him. Polly stubbed out her cigarette. “It’s not good for you to be stuck in that fucking room all day, at least _eat_ with us, or have a bloody break occasionally.”

“I don’t _want_ to have a break—I want to keep bloody painting.”

“Paint something else then, mix it up a bit.” John chimed in, dipping some bread into a bowl of soup to sop up the liquid.

“Like what?” You ripped off another piece of bread, bringing it to your lips.

“Paint me,” Tommy’s rough voice fluttered across the table to you, dropping his newspaper. You stared at him, stopping your chewing. You still didn’t know when he was having a laugh or being totally serious—the line between both moods was thin when it came to him. He kept a firm gaze on you, something flashing beneath the surface of his eyes. “I’m serious.”

_Well, then._

You contemplated your options. Painting a portrait as a break would definitely be beneficial to the forgery—but painting a portrait of _Thomas fucking Shelby_? For one thing, you didn’t even know if Tommy was capable of sitting still for a few hours, posing for you as you worked. You didn’t even know if _you_ were capable of focusing on his face for that long without over-thinking things.

You dropped your stare to the bread in your hands, swallowing the food in your mouth so you didn’t accidentally choke.

“Okay,” You decided, adding a small nod for good measure.

“Okay,” Tommy repeated, before standing abruptly and grabbing his coat. “I’ll be back in an hour. Don’t paint again until then,” He shot you a stern look and you recoiled, looking up at him like a child that had just been scolded. The door to number twelve slammed shut and you exhaled a breath you’d been holding, sending John an expression that screamed, “Help. God, help.”

John smiled into his soup, nostrils flaring as he tried to contain his laughter.

If forging a Webster was hard, painting a portrait of Thomas Shelby was going to be impossible.

-

You’d set up the easel for the portrait by the time Tommy was back, and when he entered his room you noticed why’d he’d been gone—

He’d got a haircut.

You smiled at the floor, cigarette perched between your fingers. You’d dragged a chair from the kitchen up the stairs and placed it next to the window, allowing the light to graze Tommy’s chiselled face as he sat down, prepping himself to sit still.

He looked at you face on, clearing his throat a few times in what you thought might be nervousness. But Tommy Shelby never looked nervous—not even when he _was_. “Can you sit on a slight turn, to the left,” You asked, and watched as he repositioned himself, so the light poured over him more intensely. “And just—move your stare a tad this way,” You pointed to the right. Tommy huffed as he followed your direction. “And raise your chin,” That’s when he looked towards you in annoyance. You simply raised your eyebrows at him. “Do you want it to look good or not?”

“I’m not worried about it looking shit,” He let out, raising his chin the sky. “I’m worried about my bones breaking.”

“Tommy Shelby caring about _himself?_ Ground-breaking,” You replied, sarcasm obvious on your lips. Tommy’s lips curled into the tiniest of smiles, and you raised your hands abruptly. “Stop. Right there. Perfect,” You said. You checked your hair was securely tied away from your eyeline and got to work.

You lifted your brush to get the measurements of Tommy’s face, back and forth, back and forth. He stared intensely at the spot you’d told him to keep his gaze on, occasionally moving his eyes to you for a second before returning them.

He looked different here, as if stuck in time. His cheekbones were high on his face, exposing a knife sharp jawline. His eyes were blisteringly blue, catching the late afternoon rays and revealing multiple layers to the simple blue that everyone saw of them. His shoulders were broad, and you imagined his collarbone protruded profoundly beneath his shirt, giving more of a structure to his chest and torso.

You focused on the job at hand, the crumples in the fabric of his suit, the glinting chain of his pocket watch and cufflinks, the squareness of his jaw and the stoic yet soft expression upon his face—

You’d underestimated how long Tommy Shelby could sit still. He was the ideal life model, not moving a muscle apart from the subtle up and down motion of his chest as he breathed, apart from blinking the light out of his eyes, apart from moving his gaze to look at you, encased in your work, every so often.

“Never thought you’d be able to sit this long without complaining.” You allowed yourself to shoot him an amused smile, but he didn’t reciprocate.

“In the tunnels at the Somme, we learned to stay still and quiet, or risk being found by the Germans overhead.” He said it so bluntly, but you knew it had taken a lot for him to speak of his time at the war. A strange feeling washed over the room, the space between you diminishing in distance, without either of you moving your chairs. “I still hear the pickaxes, at night.” He spoke, and you dared not reply, afraid that he’d stop talking. “That wall,” He shot his eyes to the wall above his fireplace. “I expect them to break through the brick, the noise getting louder and closer, praying that the sun’ll come up before they get through.” You mixed a shade of grey, gripping onto his words. “They never do, though.” You added a stroke of grey to the portrait, just below Tommy’s jawline.

“I’m sorry,” You whispered softly, not daring to meet him eyes.

“Stop saying sorry. You didn’t cause the fucking war.” He spoke, his jaw clenching for a moment, before he composed himself once more.

You watched as the last of the sun drifted from his face, encasing the room in darkness. You put your brush down, stretching your arms above your head. “We’ve lost the light. We’ll have to finish tomorrow.” Tommy stood, immediately grabbing a cigarette and lighting it. He made his way to you at the easel, expectantly. “No, no, no,” You jabbered, tugging the easel away from his gaze. “Not till it’s done.”

Tommy regarded you, reluctantly sitting on his mattress. You slid the easel until it was facing the wall, then sat back on the stool until your back hit the wall. Tommy handed you his cigarette, which you took appreciatively.

“You let me see the progress on the forgery,” He said, glancing to the half-done Webster painting, leaning against his dresser.

“This is different,” You muttered, inhaling and exhaling, feeling your body finally relaxing for the first time in over four hours. “This is a [L/N] original. Can’t be seen until it’s perfect.”

“A [L/N] original,” Tommy repeated. “Your name will live on in that portrait,” You shot your eyes to his, astounded that he remembered your words from a few weeks prior. “I’ll always know who painted it,” He plucked the cigarette from your fingers, bringing it to his lips. “Even after you’ve left Birmingham.”

His words stung as he spoke them, but you dared not show him your vulnerability. You dared not reveal to him that, if he were to simply _ask_ you to stay, you’d probably rethink your entire plan to leave.

You rose from the stool, untying the apron around your waist and draping it on the stool. “I’ll be back at eight to finish the portrait.” You didn’t look back when you left his room, grabbing your things from the coat hook on the back of his door first.

You shut the door on number twelve, feeling the familiar burn from Tommy’s gaze on the back of your neck. You stopped, but kept your back to his window, before continuing on to the Garrison.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oooOOOOH BABY. This is where it gets FUN. Well, to me, at least. When I thought of this next chapter it was at 3am and I shot up and had to write it down to remember it. Think it's about time the BBC hire me, to be honest. Also, original characters alert!

“Boss, I got news,” James made his way into McCullen’s office, shutting the door behind him. He stood in front of McCullen’s desk as he shuffled with his papers for upcoming auctions. “It’s her what did the gun mural. Saw her leaving the Shelby’s tonight, headed back to the Garrison. She prob’ly did the horses, too.”

McCullen regarded James, cutting him an ugly smile. “And Tommy Shelby?”

“Went back for more stock at Winsor and Newton last week. Oils, by the look of it.” James said, waiting for his boss to reply.

McCullen shifted his weight in his chair, eyes flicking to the auction notes on his desk. “Shelby knows we run the art scene around here. What could he possibly be doing with all those paints, and a _painter_ , alongside?”

“Don’t know, Sir. Not till we get inside their place and have a look.”

McCullen’s eyes flashed dangerously. He peered up at James, sending him a sickly grin.

“It’s time we pay the Shelby’s a visit.”

-

“You keep frowning,” Tommy observed, sat in the same position as yesterday. It was almost noon, you’d been at his portrait for almost another four hours.

“No, I don’t,” You muttered, despite the fact it was a blatant lie. You hadn’t touched your brush to the canvas in over thirty minutes, not knowing what it was that was off to you about the painting.

“And now you’re in denial,” Tommy added.

“No, I’m _not_ ,” You spoke, louder and more frustrated this time. Tommy’s lips curled into an amused smile. It annoyed the _hell_ out of you.

“Just let me see it—,”

“ _No!_ ” You shouted, dropping your brush and falling back down to the stool, holding your head in your hands. This was by far the most frustrated you’d ever been when it came to your art. The more you looked from Tommy to your painting, the more you hated the way the painting looked. It was driving you insane.

You sensed Tommy had got up from his pose and sat on the mattress next to you, but you didn’t look up. You didn’t want him to see you so pressed about his portrait.

“[Y/N],” He began, and you readied yourself for his verdict. “You’re frustrated because it’s finished.” You looked up at him, hands still cupping your cheeks. He stood up, grabbing the painting from the easel and holding it out in front of him. “Well, it’s definitely me.” He smiled at his own face. You tried not to blush from embarrassment.

“Is it okay?” You asked tentatively. Tommy had only ever given you praise once, for your mural of the horses on the Garrison. This was a different arena; this was _his actual face_.

He glanced your way, his expression yet again not showing any signs of how he truly felt. “I’ll get Arthur to pick up a frame tomorrow.” He replied. That’s about what you were expecting from him, when it came to giving praise to anyone. You accepted it, however, still holding onto his words from the day before; your name would live on in this portrait of Thomas Shelby, even after you were gone from his life.

You stood from your stool, stretching your arms. “Should we go and get lun—,” Suddenly, Tommy sprung towards you, his hand clamping your mouth shut. He shot you a look—a look that said, “Shut the fuck up.” You listened with wide eyes, wondering what had him pressed so suddenly.

That’s when you heard them—muffled voices, scuffing shoes, Polly’s voice booming from the entryway— “ _Excuse me_ —,” She shouted, and next came the sound of a body slamming against the wall. Shattering noises and metal clangs boomed from downstairs. Your heart skipped a beat.

Quickly and quietly, Tommy shoved his portrait under his bed. He silently gestured for you to bring him the Webster forgery, and you tiptoed to the dresser, passing it to him as frantically and silently as you could, watching as he placed it next to his portrait. He shoved the easel behind his curtains, covering it up as much as he could. You stuffed all the paints under the bed alongside both paintings, standing up and getting head rush. Tommy grabbed your arms firmly before you could fall.

“James, check upstairs.” An unknown voice cut through the air, muffled, but still decipherable. That’s when footsteps began making their way up the stairs, the stomps reverberating throughout the room.

“Take off your clothes,” Tommy whispered, _fast_ , his eyes on fire with a mixture of confusion and fear— _fear_.

Thomas Shelby was _afraid_.

You did as you were told, stripping as fast as your limbs possibly could, throwing your clothes haphazardly around the room until you wore nothing besides your brassiere and knickers.

You watched as Tommy undid his belt buckle, pulling his trousers off and flinging them to the ground, before he moved to undoing the buttons of his shirt. He ripped it off, along with his undershirt, exposing his bare chest. Your eyes landed upon a tattoo over his heart and the circular scar above it, just for a second.

You stood, in nothing but your undergarments, the footsteps getting closer by the second—

Tommy grabbed you, bringing you closer to his bare body. “Get on top of me,” He instructed, and you did so without hesitating. He deposited himself on the edge of his mattress, bringing you forward until your legs were straddling him, sat on his lap. His fingers gripped your bare thighs, making you shiver. He didn’t notice, eyes plastered upon the door to his room—

The door swung open, and you yelped in fear, wrapping your arms around Tommy’s neck and snapping your eyes shut, wishing, _praying_ , that this would all end.

“He’s here!” The boy, James, yelled to downstairs. You stayed as still as possible, except for the trembles that were crawling up your body. Tommy placed a hand to your back, gently tracing his fingers up to the nape of your neck, pulling your head back gently to meet his gaze.

“Guess we’ll have to cut this short, love,” He pushed you off of his lap, standing immediately. You scampered to the other end of his bedroom, trying desperately to cover yourself up, eyes landing upon those of James. He looked up and down with interest, which prompted you to start finding your clothes upon the floor.

Tommy found his undershirt and slipped it on, unbothered, followed by his trousers, snapping the braces up over his shoulders. “Couldn’t wait, then?” He shot James a steely look, storming out of his room and down the stairs. James shot you one last look, ugly smile on his face, before following Tommy back down to the kitchen.

You knelt to the floor, hands still frantically trying to find your underdress. Tears threatened to bubble over and down your cheeks, but you refused to let them fall. Your body pulsed with the same buzzing energy that you’d felt after you’d intervened by the boxing ring. Your skin burned where Tommy had touched your own, bare, nothing whatsoever separating you from one another—

Whatever the men downstairs had wanted, Tommy had an inkling that it surrounded the paintings. He’d thought quickly, been fast on his feet, and done what he’d promised—

He’d protected you, in the most unorthodox of ways, but nevertheless—

He’d stuck to his word once more.

Tommy had presented a situation in which ones eye would immediately be drawn to something else; this time being you, practically naked, sat on a man’s lap—Tommy’s lap. He’d made that James boy completely forget to search the room, leaving the paintings and easel hidden; _safe_.

It didn’t stop you from feeling _dirty_ —like it was caked within your skin.

You stopped for a moment, taking in a few shaky breaths, trying to calm down your rapidly beating heart. All you could hear was the blood pumping through your veins, the voices from downstairs being blocked out completely. You felt the vibrations of the front door slamming, followed then by smaller vibrations of feet stampeding up the stairs—

Tommy stormed into the room, immediately dropping to the floor in front of you, bringing his hand to your cheek. “You okay?” His eyes fluttered from yours in turn, gaze only focused upon your face, not your very exposed body. He moved his gaze to the end of the bed, seeing your underdress dangling from the bed post. He grabbed it, handing it to you gently. You nodded to his question, watching him rise from the ground.

Your eyes hit those of John and Arthur, stood in Tommy’s doorway. They took one look at you, their faces immediately turning pink. You thrust your underdress close to your chest, your cheeks burning with embarrassment and rage.

“Can’t I have some _fucking privacy!_ ” You screamed. Arthur immediately headed down the stairs, while John rushed forward and grabbed the doorknob, slamming it shut unceremoniously. You clumsily placed the underdress over your head, standing up after you were more covered, beginning the search for your skirt and blouse.

Tommy simply deposited himself on his mattress, undershirt still donned, braces fallen to his sides. He grabbed and lit a cigarette, but in that moment you were _furious_ —furious at _him_. Without thinking you stormed towards him, snatching the cigarette from his fingers and putting it between your teeth.

He didn’t react, but simply stayed sat still.

He watched as you angrily dressed yourself, pulling up your skirt and doing up the buttons on your blouse, every so often stopping to inhale and exhale smoke with a rage filled breath. When you were done, you stomped your feet, utterly flustered at the entire situation.

Your hair was askew on your head, strands falling over your red hot, blotched face.

You shot a glare at Tommy, your gut coiling to see that he was _smiling_ —

The bastard had an amused smile plastered all over his fucking face. Inside, you exploded.

“ _Nice_ that my discomfort is so _fucking funny_ to you, Tommy.” You threw the cigarette to the floor, standing with your arms crossed.

“It’ll do you good to think fondly of this whole ordeal after I tell you what just went on downstairs,” You tried not to scream in his face.

“ _Fondly?_ Of _that?_ ” Your voice was a lethal whisper. Tommy didn’t turn to look at you. “That was the single most humiliating thing that has _ever_ happened to me, Thomas Shelby. I don’t _give a fuck_ what the bastards downstairs d—,”

“They know you painted the murals,” Time stopped as all the blood rushed to your head, making the world distort around you. You couldn’t speak. Tommy turned his stare towards you, ready to spit some acid of his own. “I did that to fucking _protect_ you, [Y/N]. No other intentions whatso- _fucking_ -ever. Stop _fucking_ whining,” His voice was pure fire, burning as it cascaded from his mouth.

How—

_How fucking dare he._

“Don’t _fucking_ touch me _ever_ again— _ever!_ ” You screamed, heat radiating as the blood rushed to your cheeks. The feeling you had was indescribable—pure _hatred_ —pure _disgust_ —for Thomas fucking Shelby.

“Done,” He spat at you, his jaw clenched menacingly. He rose from the mattress, grabbing his clothes from the floor and striding out of his room, slamming the door shut behind him—

You were alone once more—

Utterly alone.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I indulged with this chapter. I really did.

As much as you wanted to leave the Shelby’s, you couldn’t leave Polly. When those men had barged in, someone named Ted McCullen and a few of his men, they’d slammed Poll against the wall in the kitchen, trashing the place.

When you’d finally made your way downstairs, Polly sat on a single chair, surrounded by broken mugs and plates, the flipped table, bruises sprouting under her skin on her arms and upon her cheek.

“Poll,” You let out in a breath, immediately rushing forward and dropping to your knees. You looked into her eyes; they were tired; so _fucking_ tired. You gently grabbed her hands, taking them in your own, as safe as you could. She flashed a sad smile;

It broke your heart in two.

You tidied together, picking up shards of china and flipping the table and chairs up the right way. Polly seemed more content after things were cleaned up a bit, almost like she could push the whole ordeal out of her head in a puff of smoke.

“You and Tommy fought,” She stopped cleaning, turning to face you and leaning back on the kitchen counter. You kept up what you were doing, wiping down the table of dust.

“It’s not important,”

“Yes, it bloody is,” She let out a chuckle, pulling a cigarette from her pocket and lighting it, blowing out the match. You stopped wiping, knowing that this wasn’t going to be a quick conversation.

“Look, Poll,” You began, and your demeaner changed. You looked at her with fire filled eyes. “I’m gonna get this painting done, and then I’m leaving. For good,” Neither moved as your gaze backed off from her, you opting to sit in a chair and lean back, letting out a long breath.

“I don’t buy it,” She whispered, hint of a mysterious smile on her face, smoke coiling around her head. “You’re not a traveller, [Y/N]. I can feel it,”

“You can _feel_ it,” You scoffed, tapping your fingers on the table.

“The Gypsy blood in me, [Y/N], it knows things,” Polly spoke, utterly serious. She took another drag, blowing smoke directly towards you. “You want to _stay_ ,” You frowned suddenly, sending her an angry look.

“You don’t know anything about me, Poll.” You said bluntly, clasping your hands together.

“I know that you’re fascinated by him, by Tommy.” She sent you a mischievous look. “Most people are, he draws in that kind of attention from women. Girls that want to _fix_ him, fuck him, _shoot_ him, but not just anyone can cut through the steel layers of our Tommy’s skin,” Poll chuckled to herself, shoulders bobbing alongside. “He’s a Shelby, alright,”

You didn’t reply, not wanting to discuss Tommy any further. Your blood still boiled when you thought of a few hours prior—the way he’d treated you after you gave him a good telling off. But his word, his last word, it trickled through your brain— _Done_.

_Done_.

Did you want it to be done?

“He’s fascinated by _you_ , as well, y’know,” Poll’s voice changed into something more playful. You refused to take her bait, instead choosing to scowl at her. “You’re a Southern village girl with _nerve_ —you’re plucky. He’s not used to it,”

“Plucky?” You repeated, scoffing at her word choice.

“A month in and you were already _doing_ things around this town. Those murals, shooting a bloody _gun_ for the first time in your life, dealing with those drunk bastards at the Garrison,” Her eyes were wide, glinting. “We all bet how long you’d last,”

You tried not to shout, but what the _fuck?_ _They’d bet on you?_ How crude. You unclasped your hands, tracing your fingernail in circles on the table, trying to look unphased.

“Well, what did you all bet, then?”

“John and Arthur bet a week, I bet three,” Polly brought her cigarette to her lips, her playful smile showing tenfold.

“And Tommy?” You breathed out, picking at your fingernails.

“Three months,” Polly spoke, coming forward to sit opposite you. You went rigid. Your mind whirred, thinking of the fact that Tommy hadn’t shot you down in that moment, before he’d even known you. The way he acted in front of you had showed him not to be such a fan of who you were, or where you came from, but this—

He’d bet on you, and was _winning._

You didn’t know whether to be happy or angry, knowing that Tommy would win this bet. It was just another example of how he was capable of divulging things about you from a single glance, as if you were an open book on a library table. Your face changed as you shot Polly a thoughtful stare, a sad smile curling on your lips.

Three months.

A month and a half left—

Then you’d be _gone_.

“I can’t believe John and Arthur said a _week,_ ” Poll immediately burst out laughing, and you couldn’t hold your giggles in. “ _Bastards_ ,”

It was refreshing, laughing with Polly about something like this. You looked towards her like somewhat of a mother figure; very, very different to your own; but that maternal instinct was written all over her. She cared so deeply about her nephews, often times you thought she cared _too much_. But that was the Shelby way—blood, family, bond—to protect those around you.

“This’ll blow over, [Y/N],” You settled down as you took in Poll’s words. “This fight with Tommy.” You paused a moment, feeling your throat begin to close.

“It was a bad fight, Poll.” She reached out to you, her hands clutching yours firmly.

“Bad fights end with bullets and blood,” She said, no hint of a joke on her lips. “You’ll both fix this, get back to normal,”

“That’s the thing,” You coughed, trying to clear your throat. Your eyes met hers, glassy—sad. You were _sad_. “I don’t know what’s _normal_ when it comes to him,”

Her face squished into a caring expression, laced with a sympathetic smile. “No one does, but we push on,”

You went back to the forgery after your conversation with Polly. You didn’t feel anymore less confused, but she’d definitely put you at ease. You grabbed both paintings and the paints from under Tommy’s bed, propping the Webster on the easel and placing Tommy’s portrait on the shelf above the fireplace.

You took a few steps back, admiring your work—

It was a frenzy of greys and purples, soft blues present within his iris’s. His suit was navy and black, his pocket watch chain glinting in the sunshine as it poured in from the window. You’d managed to capture a small smile upon his lips; Tommy Shelby was nothing more than a Mona Lisa in disguise.

He looked dapper, like a snap shot of some distant royal, but you knew that wasn’t down to your artistry; that was just what Tommy Shelby looked like when he sat still, the sun cascading down his chiselled cheekbones and razor sharp jaw, illuminating his full lips and slightly dimpled chin—

That was just what Tommy Shelby looked like.

Tommy returned as the sun began to set, making his way up the stairs to his bedroom after giving Polly a nod from the kitchen doorway. He knocked on the door once, firmly—no answer. He creaked the door open, his stare meeting you—

You were slumped on the stool, leaning against the wall to the side, paintbrush still in your hand, sound asleep. He let out a pent-up breath, his shoulders relaxing as he entered his room, pushing the door shut. You stirred when the click of the door hit your ears, opening your tired eyes and trying to straighten yourself out.

You looked towards him, your soft, sleepy expression immediately dropping to a frown. He regarded you, his face nothing more than a blank slate—typical Tommy. Silence flowed throughout the room, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Tommy stayed stood a few meters from you, hands in his pockets, eyes not moving from yours even for a second.

You wondered if being able to make prolonged eye-contact was some kind of skill he had—eye-contact had the ability to be both comforting and uncomfortable, sexy and slimy. With Tommy, it was never the latter with you. With others, his enemies, you were sure that’d change.

He cleared his throat, breaking the silence, as he strode forward, perching upon the end on his bed. You swivelled on the stool, knees mere centimetres from touching his own. His eyes traced the paint splatters on your apron, the streaks on your skirt, residue under your fingernails.

You took in a deep breath as his hands came forward, picking up your own. His thumb circled your knuckles, fingers tracing your palms gently.

“Did you mean what you said,” His voice was barely a whisper, but the roughness was still there. His eyes peered upwards into yours, you couldn’t look away. “Not to touch you again,”

His eyes flicked to your hands, still wrapped within his. You stared at the wall beyond him, eyes wide and threatening to well up with tears—not from sadness, or happiness—

From _fear._

The feeling you had in your gut was more than warmth, more than you’d ever felt with Tommy before—

It _terrified_ you.

_He_ terrified you.

It tore at your insides, butterflies eating away at your organs, gut coiling and knotting without your control.

You met his gaze, and you melted. “No,” You whispered in reply. He squeezed your hands gently, reminding you that he was there.

“Did you mean it,” You swallowed, adrenaline shooting through your blood. “When you said you wouldn’t,”

Tommy’s expression softened. He leaned down, closer to your hands, moving his fingers to your wrists, his fingers trailing softly up your forearms and stopping before your elbow.

“No,”

A tear fell down your cheek, your stare moving back to the wall beyond Tommy. Is this what it felt like? Is this what it felt like when you began falling for someone?

“I’m so— _afraid_ ,” You stuttered out, voice almost non-existent, another tear cascading down your face. You almost wished he hadn’t heard you, but he had. Tommy pulled you forward gently, until your foreheads were almost touching.

“You should be,” He whispered. “But not of me,” 

You gripped your fingers around his wrist, closing the gap and placing your forehead upon his. You closed your eyes, taking in shaky breaths and trying desperately to swallow down your rising anxiety. Tommy’s thumb kept circling your arm, and in that moment, despite the _fear_ , the _inescapable fear_ , that you felt—

It also felt right.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who's ready for unnecessary angst?

The Blinders were on lock down, after McCullen’s unannounced visit. Tommy had his men patrolling the streets around his district, on the look-out for men trying to get more information. The Shelby’s had told it to you straight—

You were on their radar, even after the stunt that Tommy had pulled to try and distract them.

They knew you lived in the Garrison, they knew you went to the Shelby’s an awful lot, they knew you’d painted the murals, they _thought_ you and Tommy were sleeping together—

_But_ —

They didn’t know you were forging a painting for their auction. They had no reason to suspect you were helping the Shelby’s with a job like this. All they knew was that you were acquainted heavily with them, that you worked as a barmaid on Fridays and Saturdays, that you, perhaps, shared a bed with Thomas Shelby some nights of the week.

“You have to be careful,” Tommy spoke. He’d called a meeting with all the Blinders. All his men, Polly, John and Arthur and Finn, you. “Go about your business as normal, don’t change your routine or they’ll know something is up.” You nodded in agreement.

“And the painting?” Arthur chimed in, arms crossed, leaning against the wall in the shop.

“[Y/N] finishes it,” He flicked his eyes to you as you sat atop one of the desks. “Then she’s free to do what she pleases,” He looked to the floor, silence flowing through the shop.

After the awkwardness of Arthur and John walking in on you half naked, Tommy had told them it was all a simple ploy. The way their cheeks blushed at you occasionally still made your blood boil, but you knew they were trying to be respectful.

It was common knowledge throughout the Blinders that you’d had to pretend to be Tommy’s whore. They all thought it was a _game_ —a distraction for McCullen—

They didn’t know about the glances, the subtle touches, the way that Tommy made you feel. You didn’t _want_ them to know. You were sure they were used to women falling for Thomas Shelby, thick and fast. You didn’t want to be piled together with them, especially when you were still so bloody confused about what _this_ was—this unspoken thing between you and the leader of the Peaky Blinders.

“So, that’s that, then,” You spoke through the silence, rising from the desk. “I have a painting to finish,” You turned swiftly on your heels, headed for the double doors to the kitchen.

You worked on the forgery the rest of the day, not stopping to let yourself think. No one disturbed you, no one entered the room, no one pressured you to eat downstairs. It was black outside when you finally dropped your brush, wrist almost numb, eyes drooping without your control.

You forced yourself to stand, untying your apron clumsily and trying desperately to stay awake. You made your way downstairs, feet dragging the floor. The kitchen was empty, and the shop was silent. It felt odd to be skulking around the Shelby’s house this late at night, like you were an imposter, living their lives, drinking their whiskey, smoking their cigarettes—

Falling for their leader.

You entered the shop, hand drifting across Polly’s desk, fingers feeling the smooth wood. You rounded the corner, your gaze falling upon the door to Tommy’s office. You’d never actually been inside, but he’d had decorators in a few weeks prior, no doubt fitting the place with the most lavish furniture that Tommy could find.

Since you’d arrived, Shelby Brothers LTD had gone through a lot of changes. New desks, new typewriters, new phones—business was booming, and you’d hazard a guess that the Shelby’s were very well off as of now. John, Arthur and Polly had moved out of number twelve. They all owned houses on Watery Lane, a few doors down from each other. Tommy stayed, however.

You approached his office, twisting the doorknob and creaking the door forward. Moon rays flowed into the room from the window, illuminating the glasses and decanters on a shelf opposite—illuminating the smoke billowing from a lit cigarette—

Tommy sat at his desk, the orange glow hitting his face scarily.

“Jesus _fucking_ Christ—,” You clutched a hand to your heart, keeling over slightly. “You scared the shit out of me,”

“Nothing out of the ordinary, then,” He spoke softly, and you took that as an invitation to enter his office. “Shut the door,” You paused, before clicking the door shut. You walked deeper into the room, spying a chair opposite Tommy’s desk and collapsing into it, bringing your knees to your chest. You turned you gaze to the moon, filtering in from the window.

“I have a question,” You began, feeling Tommy’s stare turn to you. “That scar, above your tattoo. It’s a bullet wound, is it not?”

Tommy’s chair creaked as he sat back, bringing his cigarette to his lips and inhaling. You turned to him, eyes searching for his face and landing upon his eyes, glinting in the low light.

“It is,” He replied, and you couldn’t help but shiver.

“What happened?” You asked, and for a split second you thought that perhaps you’d crossed a line from the way Tommy’s jaw clenched. You stayed silent, waiting, listening.

Tommy stubbed out his cigarette, bringing his hand to his shirt collar. Slowly, he drifted his fingers under the fabric, placing them over the wound, remembering.

“Billy Kimber happened,” He was blunt, but you thought it was more for your sake than his. Billy Kimber—the man Thomas Shelby killed. Thinking back now to when you’d first discovered that Tommy had killed a man almost _amused_ you.

You’d been so curious about whether or not he was a murderer, a bad man, but when you’d found out it was like you’d been more drawn to him—

Not because of his unspeakable actions—

But because he’d been honest.

He hadn’t held anything back about the things he’d done; he didn’t hide the nature of his business to you; he’d allowed you multiple occasions to ask all the questions you desired.

_You want to know if we’re murderers._

“I’ll walk you back to the Garrison,” He cut through your thoughts, shuffling his coat on and approaching you. You nodded, standing from the chair.

You were face to face, unmoving, so close that you felt Tommy’s breath against your cheek. He brought his hand to your chin, holding it gently. “Or, you could stay,” You stopped breathing, your head going slightly fuzzy. You didn’t dare breath in, too afraid of inhaling him, melting into his grasp completely.

“Here,” You began, whispering. “Or in Birmingham?”

You swallowed, trying not to dwell on what you’d just revealed to him—

You’d revealed that you were thinking of staying. You’d revealed that changing your mind about leaving would be as simple as him asking you to stay.

Your body craved to be next to his, but with those cravings came your over-thinking. Tommy had just asked you to stay the night—with him. You weren’t naïve, that only meant one thing was on his mind.

Something that you’d never done, or even thought of doing with another person, besides him. Something that you _didn’t want_ to do—not if it was _now_ —not if you’d be getting on a train after the job was done. You couldn’t, _wouldn’t_ , let yourself go through that kind of grief. The grief of saying goodbye to Thomas Shelby after sharing this with him.

Tommy noticed your unease, moving his hand to the nape of your neck beneath your hair.

“[Y/N]—,”

“I can’t,” You let out. “I _won’t_ do this,” You watched as Tommy’s walls shot back up, masking the way he truly felt. You wondered if he’d ever have them down longer than a few seconds with you. You wondered if he’d ever truly let you into his mind.

You weren’t going to wait around trying to find out, trying to _fix him_ , craving love from a man that you weren’t certain you were going to stand beside in a months’ time.

Thomas Shelby was capable of making his own decisions, capable of communicating a plan to his men with the swiftest of words—

But communicating his feelings?

Inconceivable.

_Just tell me to_ stay _, Tommy. Tell me to stay._

“I’ll stay in John’s old room,” You spoke as plainly as you could. “I want to work on the painting all day, no breaks.” You flashed him a glare, one that showed him you wouldn’t be played, you wouldn’t be led on, you wouldn’t let yourself fall any deeper. “I want to get it finished,”

You backed away from him, his hand falling from your neck. You left his office without a word.

You didn’t look back—

His stare not leaving you for a second.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Get ready for the best back and forth indecisiveness you've ever seen in your life.

Another week passed, and you were nearing the end. The painting was almost done, so close that you let yourself feel the tiniest bit hopeful about the future—

A fatal mistake, that hope was.

****

“Fuck— _fuck!_ ”

The bustle of the shop stopped suddenly, your shouting hitting the boys’ ears from upstairs. John and Arthur stared at each other, confused. They whipped their gaze to Tommy, stood in the doorway to his office. Bangs and crashes reverberated from Tommy’s room loud enough to make the man in question whip his suit jacket behind him and storm forward, headed for the room where you’d been painting for the last month.

He the door open to reveal you, standing still, eyes frantic as they looked down upon the Webster forgery lying on the floor.

You inhaled and exhaled deeply, a feeling washing over you—a feeling of failure.

Your brush pot lay next to the painting, its contents flooded over the forgery—

_Ruined._

It was ruined.

All that work, all that time, just for you to accidentally kick water over still wet oils, colours bleeding into one another in a frenzy of reds, greens, blues.

You’d thrown the easel into Tommy’s dresser in a fit of rage, two of the drawers now slumped, his clothes pouring out from inside, wash bowl shattered upon the floor.

“I fucked it,” You spoke finally, as Tommy walked haphazardly into the room, pushing the door shut gently. “I fucked it up,”

He approached the painting, picking it up from the floor. Water cascaded to the floor, splattering on the floorboards. He blew upon the canvas, trying to get the worst of the wet off. “It’s only bled slightly. You can save it,” He said plainly. You wished, just for one second, that Tommy would have reacted differently; that he’d approached _you_ first.

“Oil bleeds can be seen underneath other layers of paint. An auctioneer would see right through it in a second,” Tommy placed the painting on his mattress, bringing his hands to his hips afterwards.

“Start again,” He stated.

“All that work—,” You began.

“Start again,” He repeated, firmer this time.

“Down the _fucking_ drain,” You spat. Tommy didn’t like that one bit. He approached you, grabbing you by the shoulders forcefully, giving you a harsh shake.

“I said, _fucking start again_ ,” You stared at him, a blank expression plastered on your face. His eyes were ablaze, staring you down angrily.

“It’ll take another month,” You said, directly to his face. “Maybe longer,” He released you, pushing you back so you stumbled slightly. A part of you wanted him to reassure you—tell you that it was okay, that fuck ups happened, that being here another month wasn’t an issue. All that you understood from his eyes, his demeaner, his mood—

All he cared for was the painting—

_Not the artist. Not you._

“At least you’ll win the bet now,” You began, no remorse within your voice whatsoever. His jaw dropped slightly, as if he was about to say something, but nothing came out. “That I’ll last three months before fucking off to someplace else,” He snapped his mouth shut, utterly lost for words.

You weren’t ready to stop spitting your fire at him.

“It’s okay,” You chuckled at him, lips curling in an ugly smile. “I won’t stay any longer than that. Just long enough so you can say you _proved_ your brothers and Poll wrong,” Your heart thumped in your ears. “How much did you bet, Tommy? A couple quid? A few pounds on the stupid girl who jumped on a train to _fucking_ Birmingham?”

Your lip quivered suddenly, so you let out another sick chuckle to make sure Tommy wouldn’t notice. Not once had he fought for you to stay—not after everything that had happened. It cemented it within your mind—

Thomas Shelby wanted you to finish the job, then fuck off.

It broke you in ways you knew you’d never be able to fully understand.

You strode towards him, your face mere inches from his. He stayed still, peering down at you. You dropped your voice to a lethal whisper. “Just _say_ if you don’t want me to stick around, Tommy. Just _fucking_ say it, save me the time it takes to work out what the fuck kind of game you’re playing with me,”

He didn’t reply.

You thought of all the things you could say to make Tommy Shelby break inside. They bombarded your brain like train wheels on a track, fast and thick, each one entering your mind worse than the other.

“ _Fuck you_ , Thomas Shelby,” You spat at him, and before you’d realised it, you’d rushed out his room and down the stairs, opening the door to number twelve and running—

As fast as your limbs could go—

Blood and acid pumping painfully through your screaming muscles—

All the way into the centre of Birmingham.

You stopped when you realised where you were. You’d run all the way to the train station, your legs taking you there by heart. You heaved a few heavy breaths, clutching a hand to your chest. You’d never been tremendously fit, but smoking over the past two months had certainly done a number on your lungs.

You wanted to scream, but couldn’t. You wanted to keep running, but your body had turned to jelly.

If falling for someone made you over-think every small decision, every subtle look and thought and feeling, then you didn’t fucking want it anymore. Out of everywhere you could have run to, out of everyone you could have met, you’d fallen right into the hands of the Shelby’s.

You straightened yourself as a train pulled in, smoke billowing and whistles blowing. The doors opened, and you were stuck within a sea of people. You wanted to tell them to stop, to get back on the train and get out before it was too late—

To not be like you.

To not consider staying, despite how much you knew you should leave.

You watched as a beautiful woman stepped onto the platform. Her hair was long and blonde, a red hat sat atop her head. Her dress stopped just above her shins, cascading down her body in drapes of shining black silk. Your eyes followed her as she walked to the exit, heels clicking against the concrete, before leaving the station.

Her walk exuded confidence; her expression showed power; she was in control.

She wasn’t naïve about life.

A switch flicked inside your head in that moment—

If you were going to play Tommy Shelby’s game, then you were going to _play_. No matter how much you wanted to tell yourself that his actions were real, that they explained his feelings, you also couldn’t confirm that. Lust and love were different things altogether.

You wanted to kick yourself for showing so much of yourself to him so fast, without thinking of the possible consequences. You’d tried to keep up with him, but keeping up with Tommy Shelby wasn’t as easy as shooting a lame horse.

No more sitting and waiting, just to be shouted at the next time he entered a room.

If Tommy had his walls up, you would as well—

And you knew exactly when to strike.

-

After a few weeks, you were back in your painting stride. You’d begun the forgery from scratch, and it had gone even more smoothly than you’d expected.

Tommy had been incredibly absent. He’d arranged for the Garrison to be renovated, said that times were changing. These were the Roaring Twenties; the war was over. The unveiling of the new and improved Garrison was scheduled for that evening, and you’d been _invited._ That meant you wouldn’t have to work while everyone else played.

The mood within the Shelby house had changed, as well. You didn’t know all the details, but Tommy had bought Polly a house on the outskirts of Birmingham, and then a few days later Polly refused to speak to him. Even being in the same room with them was tiresome—Polly’s refusal to even look at her nephew had taken a toll on those who surrounded them.

Polly knocked on the door, poking her head into Tommy’s room. “I’m going dress shopping for tonight, fancy a break?” When she smiled at you it wasn’t the usual; her eyes were laced with sadness. From what, you didn’t know. It was Shelby business, and you would never be a Shelby.

“I already bought a new dress,” You said, smiling playfully as you dried off one of your brushes. Polly shot you a small grin, coming further into the room.

“You’re going all out, then. Any particular reason?” She chided, and you knew she was thinking about Tommy. Your face dropped into a small frown.

“Yes,” You answered. “For myself,” Polly let out a chuckle.

“Ada will _love_ you,” She said the name like you should know who they were. She said it like she was certain that you’d have a clue who she was talking about, but you’d never heard the name Ada before. Not from any of them, not even accidentally.

“Who’s Ada?” You asked, and Polly’s happy smile dropped into a questioning frown.

“Tommy didn’t—?” She stopped, composing herself. “Ada is their sister. My niece.”

Her words hit your gut like a freight train.

“Tommy never told you about Ada?”

You shook your head once, dropping your brush into a pile with the others. _No, he didn’t tell me, Poll. Add it to the mile-long list of other things he’s never told me._

She shrugged, trying to clear the air. “I thought he would’ve by now. Oh, well,” She let out a long breath. “Got a lot of shit on his mind.” She scowled after she said it.

Poll left for town, leaving you to yourself once more. You promised to meet them down at the Garrison around 8pm, which left you three hours before you’d have to leave. You’d brought your dress and make-up to the Shelby’s with you, intent on changing there and not losing more time at the easel.

You doubted Tommy would come back to the house before going to the Garrison; he was probably already there, overseeing preparations for the evening. On this occasion, you chose to indulge—

You dragged the radio from John’s old room into Tommy’s, switching it on to an upbeat Charleston. You got ready surrounded by good music, putting on minimal make up and doing your hair as best as you could—you never usually bothered with it. You slipped on the dress you’d bought a few weeks ago, after seeing the beautiful woman at the train station, and looked at yourself in the mirror.

The dress was a deep red, stopping just short of your ankles. It hung loosely over your hips, hanging off your shoulders and exposing your collarbones. The sleeves were long, unlike the fashion that was today. You’d practically jumped when you’d found it—it was so different to what all the women wore currently, and it had immediately stuck out to you. You’d bought matching black heels and a black shawl to go with it.

This was the first time you’d ever worn something so— _grown up_ — so unlike you, yet _so_ you. It was like slipping on another identity, one that had been hidden beneath years and years of being told what the fuck to do.

You slipped your cigarettes and matches in a small bag and slung it over your shoulder, approaching the mirror for one final touch to your evening look—red lipstick.

You almost scoffed thinking about what your mother would do if she ever saw you like this, dolled up and heading to the pub. Knowing her, she would’ve called you a whore. It left a sour taste in your mouth to ponder it, but you still did. It proved how much you’d grown, how much you’d progressed into becoming your own person and discovering who you really were.

You smacked your lips together, brushing your hair behind your ears, before you left the comfort of number twelve for the Garrison.

You stopped before the entrance of the pub, giving yourself a moment to breath deeply. Music blared from inside, laughter and happy voices filling the air around you. You glanced towards the wall; your mural was still there—

Tommy hadn’t painted over it.

You let out a long breath, taking a cigarette from your bag and placing it between your lips. Then you took the plunge.

You swung open the Garrison doors, immediately being met with so much light—so much _gold_. The space was unrecognisable from what you’d seen of the renovations. You still slept upstairs, but had begun coming and going through the cellar door.

Circular tables lined the walls, full to the brim with locals dressed in their finest. There was a dance floor, and girls giggled as they jived with their partners, hand in hand. The bar had grown, taking up a lot more space, but providing a lot more room to socialise while waiting to get a drink. The atmosphere was utterly transformed, from a bleak, dark pub with the same drunk locals, to a bustling 1920’s spot. It was amazing.

You stayed still as your eyes wandered the room, passing faces like John and his wife, Esme, Finn with his friends and Arthur serving drinks behind the bar. Polly stood by the wall with a young woman—you assumed it was Ada. She had the same striking family resemblance.

That’s when your gaze hit Tommy, leaned against a pillar on the edge of the dance floor. He’d bought a new suit for the occasion, but still donned his same pocket watch. You took a moment to light your cigarette, looking away to strike a match. When you looked up, he was staring at you, his gaze nothing short of intense.

You met his eyes for a few moments, before striding over to the bar, cigarette smoke coiling around you as your heels clicked confidently on the newly polished floorboards.

In that moment, you were a true _femme fatale_ —

Like you’d been reborn—

Like this was the person you were destined to be.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to say I may not upload tomorrow! University calls, and I haven't managed to write at all today yet.

“He’s beautiful,” You spoke, a small smile on your face. You sat with Ada, her son Karl bobbing up and down on her knee. You leaned forward in the same fashion anyone did when they saw a baby, making yourself small and muttering small ‘ _hello’_ s. He gripped his little fingers around one of your own.

“I know,” Ada looked at her son like he was her entire world, and you didn’t doubt that he was. “Got his father’s eyes,” She reminisced.

“He has a Shelby nose,” You added, and Ada’s smile somewhat faded.

“How did someone like you end up involved in things around here?” She asked, no hint of hesitation in her steely voice. She was definitely Tommy’s sister.

“Just happened, I suppose,” You shook your finger up and down, Karl letting out a small giggle. “You know how it is, I’m sure,” You added, and Ada nodded, frown still plastered on her face.

“Just be careful,” She had the same Brummy accent as her family, despite living in London now. You let out a small scoff at her words.

“I’ve been told that a few times before, but thank you,” You leaned back in your chair, bringing a gin and tonic to your lips. Ada shot her eyes across the room, landing on her brother—on Tommy.

“He’s been looking at you all night, y’know,” You knew who she was talking about. You didn’t follow her gaze, but sipped more at your drink. Instead, you looked towards the dancefloor. No one had asked you to dance, despite some young men meeting your eyes occasionally.

“I wonder if anyone will ask me to dance,” You ignored Ada’s previous words, eyes fluttering over people dancing the Charleston. Ada snorted into her drink.

“ _Jesus_ , you’ve got it bad for him, haven’t you?” She sipped at her wine, not even trying to hide her playful face. You shot her a blank stare.

“They didn’t tell me about you. Not until today,” Ada’s expression turned sour.

“I don’t particularly like being associated with my family here,” She let out, eyes flicking to John as he laughed loudly at the next table over. “I never asked to be a Shelby,” You scoffed this time, sending her an understanding look.

“You can say that again,” You muttered, giggles pouring from both of you. “Why did you come then?” You asked, and Ada’s giggles faded. Her eyes scanned the room until they met Polly, on the dancefloor with a young man. She was _more_ than drunk.

“For Poll,” She replied.

“Her and Tommy haven’t been speaking recently,” You added, and Ada nodded.

“It’s a long story,”

“I’ve got time,”

Ada regarded you with curious eyes, placing her drink back on the table. Her stare was similar to the other Shelby’s, but softer. That didn’t stop you from knowing that she was strong-willed, that she wouldn’t put up with shit from anyone.

“Polly told me about you. Called me up a few weeks ago. Said you were a Southern girl, never been to Brum until a few months ago,” You nodded along to her words, raising your eyebrows questioningly at her. “You should get out before your name is stamped on wanted posters, like the rest of my family,”

You chuckled once, bringing a cigarette to your lips and striking a match.

“I have a job to do first,” You lit your cigarette, flapping out the flames. Ada regarded you as you inhaled, smoke coiling around the table, Karl still on her knee. She looked at you for a few moments, as if she was trying to figure you out, but gave up and leaned back, bringing a tired Karl to her chest.

“It’s Polly’s son,” Ada let out, and you flinched, shooting a serious stare at the Shelby sister. “Tommy bought her a house and promised to find her children. They were taken from her, a daughter and a son,” Polly—was a _mother?_ “Her daughter died, but her son is alive. Tommy went to see him, but his adoptive mother seemed very— _reluctant_ —to just hand him over,” You absorbed Ada’s words in silence. “When Tommy wouldn’t hand over his address to Poll, she pulled a gun on him,” You looked down, shaking your head.

“Oh, _Poll_ ,” You muttered.

“Tommy told her to wait till he’s eighteen. Polly didn’t like that, so now they’re not talking,” Ada finished, and you looked up at her.

“Let me guess, you’re the cavalry?” You asked, and Ada shot you a smile in response.

“You catch on quick,” She looked towards you fondly and you found yourself thinking of Poll’s words— _Ada will_ love _you_ —guess she’d been right. “Are you going to talk to him at all?” She asked, and you knew she meant Tommy again.

“Think I’ll make him suffer just a tad longer,” You replied, smiling as you took another drag. You wondered about how much you could open up to her, without her going and telling him everything. On the surface Ada was sweet, strong, intelligent—but she was also a _Shelby_. Shelby’s were good at both keeping secrets and betraying business partners. You didn’t want it to be the latter. “Think I’ll get some fresh air,” You added, standing up and grabbing your shawl.

You breathed in the late Brum air, thankful to be rid of a room full of second-hand smoke and loud yells. You liked the quiet, the silence, the feeling of being able to hear your own heartbeat beneath your ribs.

You’d also realised that your open and trusting nature was hard to turn down. You’d wanted to tell Ada everything, unload all of your frustrations onto a person who knew Tommy through and through. You’d had to stop yourself by changing the subject, by leaving. You almost felt _bad_ —she’d told you everything about Polly without hesitating.

But this was your plan—

Having your walls up, just as Tommy did.

Refusing to get hurt by this situation, refusing to acknowledge it.

You smoked the last of your cigarette in peace, holding the final drag in your lungs before finally letting it go. It floated high into the air, dispersing into the night sky of Brum. You turned to the Garrison, your eyes hitting your mural—

It was illuminated by a light, pointing downwards from the side of the building.

That was _new._

It was things like this, small things, that made you want to melt into his arms. His absence of words was nothing short of heart-breaking, but his acts—acts like installing a light to showcase the mural you’d painted, knowing that you’d notice it and think about him—

He was either doing it to spite you—

Or you were finding hidden meanings within things that had none whatsoever.

“Nice painting, isn’t it,” You couldn’t stop yourself from closing your eyes. His voice trickled outside, the door clanging shut behind him. He struck a match and lit his cigarette behind your back, his shoes scrapping the gravel, getting closer and closer to you. “Mystery who did it, but Birmingham is full of mysteries,”

“I wanted to be alone,” You said blankly, back still turned to him.

“No, you didn’t,” He replied coldly. You smiled, despite you rising anger.

“So, now you know every fucking thing about me, huh?”

“Nah,” He said, and you heard his shoes scrape the gravel once more, coming around to your right and standing next to you. “But, I know you didn’t want to be alone,”

“How did you know that, Mr. Shelby?” He frowned slightly as you refrained from calling him Tommy.

“You’re not the type of person who wants to be left alone, but you have been for most of your life,” He took a drag of his cigarette, placing his hand down by his sides and brushing your knuckles accidentally—or intentionally. You didn’t care which. “It’s what you’re used to,”

When you didn’t reply he took another drag, eyes hitting your mural and flicking from the white stallion to the brunette and back again.

“That’s why you can stand to be in that room all day long, painting away, not caring if anyone comes up to see you,”

You found yourself suddenly needing to down a drink, or three or four. Having your walls up when Tommy’s were down was just as useless either way, and you didn’t want to hear anything else about _you_ trickle from his lips.

You scuffed your feet suddenly, beginning to stride back to the entrance of the Garrison. Tommy shoved his cigarette between his teeth and grabbed your arms gently, pushing you back until you felt the cold wall of the Garrison behind you. You refused to meet his eyes, choosing to look beyond him and down the street, your face blank.

“I’m a bad man,” He whispered, and you wanted to scoff. Instead, you stayed silent, breathing through your nose and smelling his cologne. He brought a hand to you chin, forcing your gaze onto his own. If anyone saw you both like this, they’d simply laugh at Tommy and his _whore_ having a little bit of drunk fun.

You stared at him with a blank gaze, despite how much your gut had begun to coil.

“I’m a bad man—,” He repeated, his eyes wide, but not angry. He looked in a rush—like he desperately needed you to hear his words, to react to them. Your shoulders relaxed ever so slightly, and Tommy could tell. He brought himself closer to you, plucking the cigarette from his lips and placing it in yours, just like he’d done a month ago.

“But you’re a _good_ woman,” His eyes were laced with some kind of pleading—pleading for you to listen to him, to understand what he was saying. You did—wholeheartedly.

You tried so hard to keep your walls up, to not let them crash and burn at the sight of Tommy like this. It’d been weeks since he’d last spoken to you like this, since he’d last touched you or sent you a subtle glance—

Tonight was about proving to him that you weren’t to be messed with. That you were strong and intelligent—beautiful—someone that he couldn’t simply place in the palm of his hand just to crush by accident.

But he was also Tommy.

_A bad man_ —

That had shown you kindness, that had given you employment, not asked questions, not asked _anything—_

You gave in— you fell.

You wrapped your hands around his forearms gently, sending him a sad frown as you allowed yourself to fall comfortably into his grasp. The cigarette he’d given you fell to the floor. 

“You’re not a bad man to _me_ , Tommy,”

He paused, letting out a few deep breaths, before moving both his hands to your face. You shut your eyes, placing your hands over his own. You stood like that, the two of you, so close and so open, for a few moments more. Tommy circled his thumb over your cheek, his once desperate face now transformed into the slightest of smiles. He ooked at you fondly, flicking from your eyes to your lips to your collarbone, then to your dress, before looking up again.

He took a step back, removing himself from you. You stopped yourself from keeping a hold of him. He stopped, sticking his hand out to you and putting his other arm behind his back. “Would you care to dance, Miss [L/N]?”

You tried so hard not to smile at him, but it was useless.

Your eyes glinted with happiness as you put your hand in his own, walking back to the entrance of the Garrison, basking into the golden light.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for how short this chapter is! I just wanted to get something out today before writing some more this evening.

“Ignore them,” Tommy whispered into your ear. He held you close on the dancefloor, one hand snaked around your waist, the other holding your hand. You flicked your eyes to his, anxiety present within.

“Everyone always looks at you, Tommy,” You whispered back, moving your gaze around the room at all the sets of eyes peering at you and the Peaky Blinder. “I’d go fucking insane,” You let out a small scoff into Tommy’s shoulder.

“You don’t notice when people look at you,” He let out, your heart dropping into the pit of your stomach, awakening the butterflies in your gut. “But they do, they look,”

You sent him a worried look, and he retorted by twisting you around, arms high in the air, before you collided into his body once more. You let out a flustered breath, cheeks reddening without any use of trying to hide them. Tommy smiled at you fondly, and it made your gut coil.

You wondered, was this the Tommy that was around before the war? Was this the Tommy that smiled and laughed and flirted, sending a cheeky smile at a girl on the street or having secret bets with Arthur and John about who would win over a bird the quickest? Somewhere within you, you knew what Tommy would answer if you ever asked him— _he’s not here anymore._

But you knew he was—deep down, under all those layers of clay and blood and soot, the old, carefree Tommy Shelby lay, dormant, just waiting until the world was in the palms of his hands before re-entering reality.

Tommy dipped you suddenly, forcing you to burst out a snort and bring your hands to cover your face in embarrassment. He pulled you up again, bringing you close to his chest and swaying. You could hear faint chuckles beneath the surface of his chest, and in that moment you would have done anything to see the look on his face—a grin, a chortle, a happy, _actually happy_ , smile.

You moved your hands and wrapped them round his torso, laying your head on his chest and choosing to shut everyone else out. It was just you and Tommy, swaying, relaxed, happy, feelings somewhat out in the open. It was blissful, to say the least, standing next to a man who had been at the forefront of your mind since day one in this town, but not for reasons you understood until now—

Until you fell for him, hard.

And he finally showed that he reciprocated your feelings.

You pushed the troubles within your mind to the deep dark crevices—you wouldn’t think about what would happen after you finished the painting. You wouldn’t think about whether or not you were going to leave or stay, not tonight. Tonight was a celebration of the Garrison, a place to be merry and chat shit, drink a few more gins that one probably shouldn’t, and collapse into bed when the night was done.

You wouldn’t ruin that for yourself—or for Tommy and the other Shelby’s.

People started to trickle out of the Garrison at around one in the morning, but you and the Shelby’s remained. You all sat at a table with lit cigarettes and half full glasses, drunk laughter and old stories pouring from your mouths.

“Nah, nah, come on,” John said, and the table hushed a tad. “You really never had anyone? No boyfriend, no man that wanted to marry you?” You shot him a smirk, shaking your head.

“I’m only _twenty_ , John. Not everyone wants a husband the way you wanted a wife,” Arthur and Ada let out loud snorts at your words. John’s lips curled slightly, but Esme sent you a steely look. You stared at her blankly for a moment, before turning back to the others. You didn’t like Esme all that much, and everyone knew it. After John had dragged you downstairs from painting a while back, she’d pulled him into the other room after you’d gone to prep for Tommy’s portrait. Polly told you that she hadn’t sounded happy, an amused smirk on her face.

“She can think what she likes, not my fault if me and her husband are on friendly terms,” you’d replied, taking a drag of your cigarette.

Esme hadn’t spoken more than a few sentences to you since you’d known her, and you were content with that. There was nothing going on between you and John; you had nothing to prove to her, or hide from her. Neither did John—well, about _you._

Tommy watched as you stared Esme down, unphased, before you turned your gaze back to the table. He moved in his chair, bringing a hand to your knee under the table and squeezing affectionately. You turned to him, tracing his jawline fondly.

“I still find it hard to believe,” John added, and you let out a long sigh, indulging him for once.

“There _was_ one boy—,”

“I _fucking_ knew it,” He interrupted, shooting you a playful smile.

“ _But!_ ” You shouted, smile on your lips. “It never went anywhere,” The table went silent suddenly, so you decided to lighten the mood. “I was _obviously_ too good for him,”

“Oh, _yeah, yeah, yeah_ ,” John shouted joyously as Arthur slapped his brother on the shoulder, the two of them sharing laughter. You took a drag of your cigarette, flicking your gaze to Tommy’s hand on your knee. You watched as he swiped his hand up your leg until it landed, snugly, on your thigh. That’s when you realised that he wasn’t trying to hide it—

He was trying to show everyone—

Show everyone that Tommy Shelby had his hand on your thigh. That you were, perhaps, his.

Ada was the first to shoot you a look, eyebrows raised. Your regarded her with raised eyebrows, raising your glass to your lips and downing the contents. “I’ll get another gin,” You said, beginning to stand.

“I’ve got it,” Tommy let out, getting up faster than you and gabbing your glass, making his way to the bar without a word. You stared at his back for a few seconds, and when you turned back to the table, all eyes were on you.

“ _What?_ ” You boomed out, and everybody’s gaze flicked to other parts of the room suddenly. The way they looked like scolded children made you let out a scoff, and soon they were all back to laughing and smiling.

There was one thing missing, however—

Polly.

She’d gone home with the young man, no doubt to do the deed. You admired Polly for her confidence and severity, but it was clear she was in a grey area with everyone after pulling a gun on her nephew. It was clear she was hurting, but what Tommy did by holding back the address was to protect her and improve her chances of actually getting to see her son again.

Tommy came back with your gin and one of his own, placing the glass into your hand as he sat down. “Thank you,” You muttered, and he returned his hand to its former place on your thigh.

“It’s been a grand night, boys,” He spoke up, sending John and Arthur a congratulatory look. “And it’s been lovely to see you, Ada,” He added, turning to his sister. She sent him a sad frown, furrowing her eyebrows. You didn’t know how long it’d been since Ada had last been sat around a table with her brothers, but you guessed it was long enough for them to miss her, and she them, despite what she’d told you earlier.

Nothing could dampen your mood in that moment, sat with the Shelby’s, drinking fancy gin and being aware of Tommy’s hand squeezing your thigh.

But all good things must come to an end.

You said goodbye to the Shelby’s, locking the Garrison behind them and making your way upstairs to your flat.

You opened your door, shrugging off your shawl and throwing it into the room—

It never hit the floor.

“Miss [L/N],” His voice hit your ears and you froze, you eyes hitting his as he stood next to your stove, shawl clasped in his fist. McCullen—you knew it was him by his voice. “A little bird told me that you’re not _just_ Tommy Shelby’s whore, that you painted those murals, that you’re painting something _much_ more valuable,” He sauntered over to you, his face plastered with an ugly smirk. “Let’s have a chat, shall we?”

Before you could run, James appeared from behind the door—

His knuckles hit your cheek as you whipped your gaze to him—

You dropped to the floor—

All you saw was black. 


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'm thinking of a sequel to this. Some of you may not like the ending I've decided upon, but we're all here for the long haul... doesn't say slow burn for nothing.

You’d tried not to cry, you’d tried not to yell or squeak or show them that you were in pain. These people didn’t care about you—they thought you were a whore, working for Tommy Shelby as a forger as well simply because you were under his thumb, but what was worse—

The way McCullen stared at you. It was the most painful thing of all.

You knew you looked like a wreck—bruised and bloodied, like you’ve been through a fucking war. Your face throbbed in so much pain that it was as if it’d gone numb. Red glinted into the corner of your eyes, which could only mean blood was pouring down your face. You didn’t even want to think of your body, how you could guess that one of your ribs was cracked. Your legs were a canvas splattered with purple, your new dress utterly ruined.

How had you been at the Garrison just a few hours ago, drinking and being merry, dancing, being close to Tommy?

It seemed so unfair that now you were here, tied to a chair in some damp, grotty warehouse, your mouth gagged and body utterly broken.

McCullen stepped towards you, his shoes slapping the damp concrete as he approached.

“Here’s the deal, sweetheart,” He went to grab your face, but stopped. He clicked his fingers at James, who rushed over and handed him a handkerchief. McCullen wrapped the cloth around your chin, protecting his fingers from your blood as he squished your face, forcing your eyes onto his. “Tommy Shelby knows not to mess with my side of business, the arts, the creatives,” The way he spoke was theatrical; you would have bet money that he was a closet theatre kid, mistreated by all the burly boys at school when he was young. “So, what makes him think he can have _you_ forge a painting?” McCullen tightened his grip on your face and you let out a deep shaky breath, trying not to groan in agony. “Don’t worry, you’re just bait for Thomas Shelby—you’re sleeping with him, as well, are you not?”

You clenched your jaw, and he felt it. His eyes glinted with something sickening, as if he was actually intrigued, or _happy._

“Oh, my dear. You _love_ him, don’t you?” He took a step back, releasing you from his grasp. “Hear this, James, a little whore in love with Tommy Shelby,”

“Never heard that one before, Sir,” James replied sarcastically, and the two of them let out disgusting chuckles. You tried not to well up, or get angry—but you could feel your rage bubbling deep within, the same rage that had made you fire a gun for Thomas Shelby in danger, the same buzzing energy infiltrating your insides.

“Where was I, yes—you’re just bait. Thanks to a glorious tip from some burly boxers, it seems you’d do more than just fuck Thomas Shelby, wouldn’t you?” Your eyes widened at his words, your heart jolted—

He was talking about Keels and his men, when you’d defended Tommy, when you’d fired a bullet at the wall. But how—

How would McCullen know that? Unless Keels wanted to get _you_ back, as revenge.

News travelled fast about Small Heath, from gang to gang. You’d bet money that after McCullen raided the Shelby’s house, Keels had come forward to say that you’d been recently involved with the Peaky Blinders. That’s how it worked around here, an eye for an eye, information traded for safety, or security, or assurance—

Assurance that, whoever was at fault, would be dealt with.

You were reminded of when you’d pulled the gun on Keels, how the metal had felt in your hand, how your father’s revolver had actually come to be of use to you. You thought about it, back at the Garrison, tucked away in your suitcase under your bed—

Would you ever get to see it again? The last thing you had that reminded you of your father.

“Let’s hope that Thomas Shelby would do the same for you, dear, because his time is running out,” McCullen added, dropping the handkerchief with your blood to the floor. “I’ll get that forgery, little whore. And I’ll get Thomas Shelby, as well,”

-

Tommy raced up the stairs to your flat, his eyes ablaze. Harry had told him, said that your door was open, that you hadn’t come down for breakfast, that your belongings were all still there—

He entered your flat, trying to slow his breathing. You weren’t there— _why_ weren’t you there? And why had you left _everything_ behind?

Tommy whipped his stare to the painting on your wall, his eyes tracing the red letters that now defiled a once pleasant landscape, breath catching in his throat;

_Little whore,_

_Little whore,_

_Don’t you start._

_Painting for the Shelby brother,_

_Who’s missing a heart._

A time and place had been etched beneath the words.

Tommy’s heart hit his gut—this was exactly what you’d been so worried about when you’d signed the dotted line, this was exactly what you’d been fearing. But he’d promised to protect you, that was binding, typed in ink—typed over his heart.

Tommy brushed his hands through his hair, trying desperately to calm himself down. He tried not to over-think this, tried to tell himself that this had happened before, to others that had worked for him, that it wouldn’t be difficult to get you back—

But this was _you_ —

Why did it have to be you?

Tommy searched your room suddenly, going through your drawers and cupboards, checking behind your dresser and beneath your pillow. At the last second, he dropped to the floor, eyes peering the suitcase underneath your bed. He pulled it out, unlatching the clasps. Your father’s gun glinted up at him, cold and unused since the first time you’d ever fired it.

Tommy left the Garrison, sprinting back to the Shelby house, your father’s gun safely stashed in his coat pocket.

“She’s gone,” Tommy said bluntly. The Shelby’s sat around the kitchen table, all but Polly. “McCullen took her, he’s holding her in one of his warehouses,”

“Well, fuck!” John said, jumping up. “Let’s go and _fucking_ get her, Tommy—,”

Tommy raised a hand to his brother, and John settled back into his seat, face awash with concern. “They want the forgery,” He added, and everyone went silent. Everyone, apart from baby Karl, bobbing up and down on Ada’s knee. Tommy regarded his nephew, sending him a sad frown.

“They want it, we give it to ‘em,” Arthur spoke up, and nobody fought against him. They’d all come to the same conclusion; _you_ over the painting. Screw the fucking forgery, screw the contract; they were going to get you back.

“It’s _half-finished_ , Arthur. We have fucking _nothing_ —,” Tommy was cut off by John standing once more. He shot Tommy a frenzied stare, a plan forming within his skull.

“We have the _first attempt_ , Tommy, the one she _fucked up_ ,” Tommy shot his brother a stare, the cogs whirring in his mind. This could work—the painting, from first glance, didn’t even look fucked up, but you’d said that oil bleeds can be seen at a close range.

They’d go to the warehouse, hand over the fucked up painting and _get you back_. That was all that mattered right now—if McCullen came back after realising it was worthless, then they’d all work it out together—

With you alongside.

“I _know_ McCullen, he’s a bastard,” Tommy began. “We give him the painting and he’d shoot her in cold blood,”

“So, you have to be one step ahead, think of another angle,” Ada chimed in, and Tommy took in a sharp breath. His fingers clasped around the revolver in his pocket, plan hatching behind his eyes.

“I have a plan, one that she’ll be able to understand,” He peered at Ada, his eyes tracing over a snotty Karl on her lap. “McCullen loves dramatics, so let’s give him drama,”

In the same way Tommy never called Poll or his sister a Peaky Blinder, he suddenly regarded you in the same light—

You were a Peaky Blinder, through and through—

And as soon as he’d got you back, he would _ask_ you to _stay_ in Birmingham—

_With him._


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love it when a theatre kid goes crazy.

Time moved differently in the warehouse. You didn’t know if it’d been an hour or a day, all that you knew was that when blood dried on your face it felt like you were wearing a mask. A mask of evil, a mask of death.

You were scared, that was for sure.

You were scared that McCullen was going to kill you.

You tried not to think about Tommy. The more you did, the more your mind settled upon the dark thoughts—ones where he wouldn’t come for you—ones where he leaves you to waste away in this warehouse, choosing to keep the painting over you—

The one where you’d never leave Birmingham, where you’d be buried beneath the Earth here forever.

You flinched when McCullen entered the warehouse again, his brogues smacking the damp concrete as he approached you. “Well, little whore, maybe I was wrong about Thomas Shelby after all,”

Your heart dropped, and that’s when James entered the warehouse, three people trailing behind him. You could have cried when you saw their caps, but you found yourself not needing to let out tears. It was like they no longer needed to pour down your cheeks to communicate how you felt—you could do it in a single stare now.

Arthur, Tommy and John walked together.

The Peaky Blinders.

Tommy’s eyes hit yours as he came into the light, blue eyes still striking even in the dankness of McCullen’s abandoned warehouse. Behind him, John carried the painting with a sheet placed over the top.

“Mr. Shelby,” McCullen began. They stood meters apart from each other. Tommy placed a cigarette between his lips and lit it.

“McCullen,” He replied, letting out a puff of smoke. “You have something that doesn’t belong to you,” Your eyes ate him up.

“So, she _belongs_ to you, Thomas?” McCullen let out a chuckle. “Not sure the suffragettes would appreciate your demeaner about owning women,”

“She belongs to herself, McCullen. You took her own choices away from her when you dragged her here against her will,” Tommy flicked his gaze to yours, and you regarded him as best as you could with only your eyes. McCullen looked at Tommy with a frown, before he clicked his fingers at James.

“The painting, Mr. Shelby,” Tommy kept his eyes on you as John stepped towards James, the covered forgery still in his hands. When John passed it to James, Tommy’s expression changed—

It’s like he was screaming at you, desperately trying to communicate something to you—

And that’s when he mouthed a word—

One syllable—

_Cry._

You understood, and for a moment you pondered; why the fuck did Tommy want you to start crying? To make a scene? To be dramatic—

The look on his face showed you that he had a plan, that he needed you to follow it if you wanted everything to be alright. You flicked your eyes to James as he approached McCullen with the painting, your heart thumping uncomfortably within your chest—

You started wailing.

You began fighting against the ropes that tied you to the chair, forcing yourself to let out tears and yell into your mouth gag. You knew they’d hardly be able to understand you, but still you shouted— _Tommy don’t, don’t give it to him, don’t do it_ —until you could feel your throat start to be scratched dry.

James stopped short of McCullen as he turned to you, a grim smile plastered on his theatrical face. McCullen gave Tommy a once over before he turned to James. “James, it seems the artist wants to see her hard work one last time before it’s ours. Why don’t you let her hold it,” McCullen turned back to Tommy. “One _last_ time,” He repeated. In that moment, you knew why Tommy had done this—

McCullen was one of those men that John had warned you about—ones that wouldn’t second guess shooting you without a care.

Keels had definitely made a deal—information, for your demise.

You were on the chopping block.

James walked over to you, his ugly smile looking distorted through your sudden tears. You kept struggling as he approached you, placing the painting on your lap and slipping the sheet off—

You tried to stop yourself from laughing, instead replacing the sudden chuckles that wanted to come from your mouth with more sobs.

It was the _first attempt_ —the fuck up.

They were swindling McCullen.

You didn’t notice when James moved to stand behind you, but the next thing you knew his slimly hands were gripping your wrists painfully, making the rope dig deeper into your skin. You let out a yelp, struggling against his grasp, your heart beginning to accelerate beneath your ribs.

“Now, Mr. Shelby, I’m a good man,” McCullen began, and you saw Arthur and John go rigid as they glared at James, hurting you. “I run the art business in this town. It was a deal that myself and the other _respectable_ families in Small Heath had decided upon, was it not?” Tommy didn’t reply, but simply flicked his gaze to the painting on your knees. “You broke that deal when you got this whore to start painting for you, Mr. Shelby.”

Behind you, James plucked a knife from his pocket. Her began hacking away at your bonds, his hands close to snapping both your wrists.

“I need to put certain things in place to make sure that never happens again,” McCullen said finally, before he turned to James with a smile. James let one of your arms free, almost tugging your shoulder from its socket. “Start with her hands, James. We’ll see if that gets the message across,”

You screamed as James placed the knife next to your wrist, drawing blood.

The cock of a gun hit your ears before the room went silent once more. Tommy pointed his gun directly at McCullen, the safety was off.

“We gave you the painting, McCullen. You hand her back to us now, or there will be consequences,”

“You should have thought about those consequences when you began the forgery, Thomas,”

Adrenaline coursed through your veins as Arthur’s words entered your mind once more—

One wrong move, and James would cut your hand off, slice your throat—

In one swift motion, you thrust your elbow deep into James’ crotch. You heard a sickening _crunch_ as you did so, and James’ screams of agony filled the warehouse. He dropped to the floor, his body crashing into your chair as he fell—

The chair lost its balance, and you plummeted to the floor with it, your skull smacking the floor with a spine shuddering crack. Your gag loosened, freeing your mouth. The painting fell to the floor in front of you, but something was _off_ —

McCullen began towards the painting, but Tommy strode forward. “Move, and this bullet will go through your temple,”

Your vision whirred as you tried to place it—the sound the painting had made hitting the floor— it reminded you of when Keels had dropped his gun before, the sound the metal had made hitting the gravel and concrete—

You tried to steady your vision, landing it upon the forgery.

The glint of metal hit your eyes beneath the sheet—

Your father’s gun was secured to the back of the painting. They’d planted it there, going off of pure luck that McCullen’s sadistic love for the overdramatic would ensure he gave you the painting—

_One last time._

You’d landed on your free arm, but you knew what you had to do. You shuffled painfully in the chair, the ropes digging into your torso, stretching your hand out as far as you could. You prayed that McCullen didn’t look round at you, that James wouldn’t be getting up any time soon.

“Tommy, Tommy, Tommy,” McCullen began, but you tuned him out, intent on grabbing your father’s gun. You didn’t know what you would do when you had it, but you pushed through. McCullen’s voice changed quickly, his true ugliness revealing itself. “I can’t wait until your head is on a pike, dead and gone,”

Your fingers hit the metal. You were centimetres away from having it within your grasp—

“ _I_ will be the one to do it, to have you killed, to watch you and the rest of the Peaky Blinders bleed and beg for their lives,”

You gripped the gun, breathing painfully as you contorted yourself so you were aiming at McCullen’s legs—

“I _will_ kill you, Thomas Shelby, when you least expect it,”

“No—,” You let out, your voice nothing more than a deep and harsh whisper.

McCullen turned to you, his eyes widening in rage as he laid his gaze upon you.

“ _You fucking won’t_ ,”

You pulled the trigger, the noise reverberating around the empty warehouse and hitting your ears painfully—

The bullet flew through the air and landed with a sickening crack, directly through McCullen’s ankle bone—

He hit the floor, his screams filling the air around you. You let your father’s gun go, relaxing your body as best as you could against the wet concrete.

The last thing you saw was Tommy, blurred, running towards you in slow motion—

Sprinting towards you like nothing else mattered.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! I'm sorry it's been so long- life took over there for a moment. 
> 
> COVID-19 is a scary thing, and I pray you're all safe and well. Please be careful, please distance yourself, please listen to precautions for your own safety and the safety of others. These are trying times and I won't lie that I, and millions other, are very afraid; but WE MOVE FORWARD. 
> 
> Anyway- I'll definitely have the time to finally get this baby done and dusted for you all! Thank you so much for all the kudos and comments since I've been gone, they're greatly appreciated and give me the motivation to continue. 
> 
> I will be writing a sequel to this bad boy! Yay! 
> 
> Enjoy x

You looked slightly better when Polly washed the blood off your face, but it still wasn’t a pretty sight. Your left eye was bruised purple, your forehead bared a deep red slash where falling from the chair had slit your skin wide open. Your ribs were a bluish-green, tinged with browns and yellows—

But you were alive. And you were breathing.

Tommy had come for you.

But something felt off—something felt... different.

Tommy was by your side when you’d woken in John’s old room, your entire body aching and clicking as you’d sat up in bed. Tommy handed you a mug of tea, but his face didn’t look how you’d thought it would—

He didn’t look relieved.

He looked—

Ashamed. Preoccupied. Sick.

You regarded him silently, a feeling of uneasiness washing over you. You took a timid sip from the mug, the tea warming you pleasantly. “Guess I better finish the painting,” You let out, trying to make a joke of this entire situation.

It backfired.

“Fuck the painting,” Tommy spat, his brows furrowed angrily. You placed the mug down on the side table, shuffling yourself until you faced him.

“What’s going on, Tommy?”

“ _What’s going on?_ ” He repeated harshly. “You were almost killed, that’s what’s wrong,” The way his eyes refused to meet yours, the way his were interlocked—you knew it—

You knew he was lying about something.

“I don’t buy it,” You let out. “Something’s happened since I’ve been asleep, hasn’t it?” You whispered it, and he forced his eyes shut. “You can’t get things past me now, Thomas Shelby,” He allowed himself to smile at that, before bringing his hand to yours slowly, his thumb circling your knuckles.

You thought about falling into his grip, but refrained. Something wasn’t right—wasn’t the same. You’d find out about it sooner or later, but for now you didn’t want to crowd yourself around him when you didn’t know what was going on inside his head.

“It’s nothing you need to concern yourself with right now,” He whispered. “And I mean it— _fuck_ the painting,” His eyes hit yours and you squinted slightly.

“You have new business?”

“Not new, it’s been in the works for a while,” He replied, and you took in a deep breath, trying not to let the hurt feeling within you consume you. Tommy Shelby kept secrets. When things didn’t concern you, why would he tell you? It was fine. “Epsom will be Peaky Blinders territory soon,”

“You mean—the Derby? _Epsom_ Derby?”

“The boys secured a filly a while back, a good one. She’s been trained well,” Tommy stared at you with fire in his eyes. “She’s going to win,” You couldn’t help but smile.

“I don’t doubt it for a second,”

You thought for a second that he was going to embrace you. The way his eyes gleamed at your own, the way he let out a pent-up breath; but he didn’t. Instead, Tommy rose from his chair, eyes hitting the floorboards as he plucked a cigarette from his pocket and placed it between his teeth.

“We have a guest,” He uttered, and you raised your brows. “Polly’s son,” The breath hitched in the back of your throat.

“He came to Small Heath?”

“Arrived this morning. He’s staying at Poll’s place, away from— _all this_ ,” You knew what he meant. _All this_ was referring to McCullen, to you, to the Blinders.

“What’s he like?” You asked.

“A boy,” Tommy replied. You sighed, noticing the way Tommy’s voice had shifted. You saw the cogs beneath his skull whirring—he didn’t want Polly’s son encased in this family business just yet, you could tell.

Tommy lit his cigarette, taking a drag. “Rest,” He added, and then he was gone.

The door clicked shut and you found yourself staying completely still. Something else was on Tommy’s mind, and somewhere deep within you it broke your heart. There was this stabbing feeling that it was to do with you and him, but you didn’t know why.

The Derby was another new thing you hadn’t been expecting, but being around Tommy this long almost made you brush it off. He was a businessman, spreading himself thin with jobs and deals and death warrants. You tried not to think about what else Tommy could possibly be hiding from you, you tried not to overthink his aversion to touching you or being affectionate with you that day, you tried to ignore the uncomfortable sting of your ribs and the obvious scar you were going to get on your face—

This was just another day in Small Heath—

Another day where you didn’t know what would happen.

-

You ignored your aching and cracking bones when you finally decided to get out of bed. You couldn’t stay sat down all day, not doing anything at all productive. It drove you insane; especially when your anxiety was already at breaking point.

You slipped on a skirt and shirt and made your way downstairs, one step at a time. It was excruciatingly slow, but you knew you couldn’t push yourself too hard, not after the absolute beating you’d taken.

You turned the corner to the kitchen and Polly was already upon you, tutting with her eyebrows furrowed. “You stupid girl, you shouldn’t be walking—,”

“Gonna take more than that to kill me, Poll.” You forced out a chuckle as she helped you into one of the chairs around the kitchen table, Polly’s lit cigarette still balancing from an ashtray on the top. “Can I pinch one?” You asked, and Polly scowled.

You sent her your best puppy dog eyes and an overdramatic pout. Her scowl softened ever so slightly, then she plucked a cigarette from her pack and handed it to you. She took a seat, striking a match and lighting the end for you.

You savoured your first cigarette in over a day, trying to swallow down your sudden anxiety from earlier—

What was up with Tommy?

Polly sensed your uneasiness immediately. “What’s he done now?” She didn’t say it playfully, she said it like she knew what was wrong. But you wouldn’t, couldn’t, allow yourself to worry right now. Not when your ribs were still bruised and your head was still throbbing. It wasn’t fair.

“Enough about me, what about _you_?” You spoke, and raised your brows at Polly. Her face dropped slightly.

“He told you about Michael?”

“Ah, so that’s his name,” You paused. “Michael Gray.”

Polly took a shaky drag of her cigarette. You stuck your hand out and grabbed her free one, wrapping your fingers gently over her knuckles. She stared at you with glassy eyes.

“He came to me, Y/N.”

“Yes, he did,” You replied, and Polly let out a stammering breath.

“What if I fuck it up?” She whispered, and you found yourself smiling.

“I don’t think you have it in you to fuck up, Poll.” She smiled back at you, her eyes welling silently.

You tried not to think about everything; the painting; the kidnapping; the prospect of being dead and buried, if it weren’t for Tommy showing up. You tried not to let yourself pry into those dark spaces within your mind; your feelings for the Peaky Blinder; whether you would stay or go; why Tommy had been so distant with you after you’d woken up—

You didn’t realise you’d started crying until Polly squeezed your hand.

“Oh, Y/N,” She got up suddenly, coming to kneel next to your chair.

“I didn’t realise— I didn’t mean to—,” You let out, but your throat had begun to close up, the sobs had crawled their way up your body until you couldn’t hold them in any longer. “I’m _sorry_ —,” Polly wrapped you up in her arms, gently, rocking you back and forth like a baby.

“Don’t apologise,” She whispered, bringing you closer to her chest. “You don’t _ever_ have to apologise for anything,”

You cried into Polly’s chest, you wailed, you sobbed, you spluttered—

You hadn’t cried like this in years; not since you’d found out your father and brothers were dead. Not since your entire world had been turned upside down.

Perhaps this was a sign that it’d been turned upside down once more—

Perhaps this was a sign to get out before it was too late.

But Tommy—

Tommy fucking Shelby.

Tommy _fucking_ Shelby.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lmao sorry for this taking forever again. I've had a lot of university work to get done. 
> 
> But I finally had time to finish up this chapter! And I've started planning a sequel too! Woohoo!
> 
> Enjoy x

You thought that maybe he’d get over it—

Maybe he’d touch you again, hold you close, whisper in your ear, tell you to stay.

By the fifth day of avoidance, those thoughts were beginning to trickle down the drain. You stayed in the Shelby household with him, though. It was like a silent agreement—you weren’t allowed out of the Blinders sights; you were to rest and get better; to be waited on; to be cared for; to be protected.

In the day, the shop was bustling as usual. Sometimes you watched from the kitchen table as men came to bet. You oversaw the shop floor when Polly did the books, when John and Arthur wrote the odds on the blackboard, when men came in fuming or elated. You eavesdropped Blinders conversations, all of them related to the Derby.

But he didn’t speak to you unless it was necessary.

“Did you eat breakfast?”

“Yes,”

“Did you eat lunch?”

“Yes,”

“How are your ribs?”

“Fine,”

Tommy nodded curtly at you, plucking a cigarette from his pack and placing it between his lips. Lips that you thought, maybe, were yours. Once.

If he sensed your coldness, he didn’t show it. He didn’t show anything, anymore, but you saw the stares that John would give him after another blunt question. You saw the way Arthur peered at Tommy’s office door after he’d slam it without so much as a stare in your direction.

Polly knew what was wrong—you sensed it.

You also knew she’d tell you if you simply asked her, but still you refused.

Tommy was capable of speaking. He was capable of it all. You wanted to hear it from his own lips, whatever it was.

You had suspicions—

He’d re-evaluated his feelings; he was too busy to show anything; he didn’t want to show his guilt about everything; he’d never liked you in the first place—

Every suspicion was worse than the last. It was eating you alive, not knowing.

_He_ was eating you alive, without even being around you. His absence was like a circle of fire, burning hotter and brighter the more he distanced himself from you.

“Right,” Polly spoke up suddenly, stubbing out her cigarette in the kitchen table ashtray. “Come on,” She stood abruptly, gesturing for you to do the same.

“Where are we going?”

“To see my son,”

You smiled, genuinely, for the first time in days. You hadn’t gone outside since you’d been saved. Your body craved the sun, the air, the movement. Polly hooked her arm through yours as you both stepped out the door of number twelve. The door shut behind you, and you didn’t look back.

You’d never been to Polly’s new house, but it was nothing short of beautiful. Tommy had picked well. You stepped out of the car and squeaked the door shut, taking it all in—

Your heart panged within your chest.

You’d been so used to terraced housing and the colour grey for almost three months. Seeing something like this, a simple cottage with flowers and grass and big rickety windows—

It reminded you of home. Old home. The house you grew up in. The garden you ran around in with your brothers. The porch you’d drink orange juice on in the morning.

“It’s wonderful, Poll.” You let out, gulping down the feeling of tears.

“Just wait till you see inside,” She added, walking towards the front door. She swung the door open, and a cosy entry way met you with open arms. The house was so typically Polly, draped with gypsy silks and adorned with various gems and beads on strings.

“Michael!” Polly yelled excitedly, slipping her shoes off clumsily. You’d never seen her so enthused. It made you smile, for real. She jogged into the living room and you followed, kicking your shoes off behind hers.

Polly embraced Michael tightly, fiddling with his hair as she pulled away from him.

That’s when you saw him.

He had the likeness—that Shelby stare, not as intense, _yet_ —but that was definitely Polly’s fucking son. He approached you first, sticking out his hand professionally.

“You must be Y/N,” He spoke, his smile a breath of fresh air.

“And you must be Michael,” You took his hand in yours firmly, smiling back at him with no false glee.

“Polly’s told me a lot about you. She never shuts up, actually,” Michael flashed his mother a playful look. Polly’s cheeks reddened slightly, and your entire body flowed with warmth. You regarded Polly properly, for once. She wasn’t simply a friend in a world of grey, she’d cared for you the way she cared for her nephews—

Like a daughter.

“Well, I never shut up about her, either,” You added, sending her a smirk. She waved her arms.

“Alright, alright,” She crossed her arms. “Tea?”

Michael was shy, but talkative. Polly looked at him like he was her whole world; because right now, here, forevermore, he would be. You stomped down the obvious questions that burned within your brain—

Did he know what the Shelby’s did?

Did his adoptive mother know he was here?

Was he even allowed to be here, not being eighteen yet?

Despite being barely two years older than him, you regarded him as somewhat of a child. It was almost redundant to, considering you were mere years older. But you felt older; older than your twenty years, older than you looked. That’s what Birmingham did to you—

Forced you to grow up.

You focused on happy thoughts. On the now, having tea with Polly and Michael. On the future, being safe and protected from people like McCullen. You didn’t think about Tommy. You didn’t.

“What do you do, Y/N? Do you work with the Shelby’s?” Michael asked innocently. You shot a stare at Polly. She looked at you with a subtle sharpness. You knew not to go into too much detail, at least not yet.

“I’m a painter, and a barmaid,” You replied, and Michael’s eyes lit up.

“Painting, that’s interesting,”

“I’ve been doing it since I was young. And the barmaid job, well,” You tapped the table-top. “That wasn’t planned as such, but it’s been good for me,” You smiled at him. You could tell he had more questions; he was no doubt curious about what the Shelby’s actually did. You’d bet that everyone was keeping him in the dark until he was eighteen years old. Until he could choose for himself whether he wanted to stay with Polly or not.

Polly took a sip of her tea. “Y/N is skilled at other things, too. When she oversees the books with me she just _knows_ how it all works. Smart girl,”

“I’ve always had a flare for being organised, I suppose,” Your cheeks blushed slightly.

“You could open up your own betting shop with that kind of knowledge,” Polly smirked at you playfully.

“Or a speakeasy,” You replied, not being totally serious.

It was nice to have a break from Watery Lane, the smoke, the boys. It was nice to have an actual human conversation, one where you weren’t being grilled or spoken at instead of spoken to.

The shrill sound of the wall phone ringing brought you out of your thoughts. Polly jumped up. “Tommy installed it a few days ago. How modern,” She spoke, before her pattering feet rounded the corner to the hall. You listened as she answered the call, then looked over to Michael, sipping at his tea in comfortable silence.

“Don’t raise your voice at me, now,” Polly’s voice boomed from around the corner. “Jesus, Tommy. She hadn’t left the fucking house in days, she was shrivelling up in there—,”

Your ears perked up at his name, curiosity overtaking your strength at trying to push him out of your mind.

“For fucks sake— you’re _insufferable_ right now— fine!” You glanced at Michael, listening to his mother shouting. He glanced back at you, sending you a confused look. You sent him one back.

Polly came back to the dining room, an annoyed look plastered on her face. “It’s for you, Y/N,” You got up slowly. “I swear that boy will be the death of me,” Polly added, taking a large gulp of tea.

You left the room, shutting the door behind you quietly. You didn’t much want them overhearing what Tommy had to say to you so urgently. You picked up the phone, bringing the device to your ear. “Hello?”

“Couldn’t have said you left the house with Poll, then, huh?” Tommy’s voice was slightly static over the phone, but you’d know when he was pissed off anywhere. Rage bubbled beneath your skin suddenly; you felt your cheeks redden.

“Oh, _I’m sorry_. I didn’t realise you controlled everything I did on my time, _Mr. Shelby_.” You shot back at him.

“Stop talking bull, Y/N. The least you could have done was say something,”

“Missing me, are you, hm? Because I and everyone else in number twelve and fourteen were certain you didn’t give a fuck about me anymore, you know.” You weren’t going to swallow down your words any longer, not when he was mad at you like this. Hr deserved every sour word you shot his way.

Tommy went silent on the other end of the line.

Faintly, you heard him strike a match.

“I don’t know what the fuck is going on with you right now, Tommy, but I don’t like it. No one likes it,” You added, and you tried to ignore the way your throat suddenly felt dry. “So, excuse me for wanting to stay out of your sight, excuse me for feeling hurt about your sudden wooden behaviour, excuse me for _ever_ thinking that we—,” You cut yourself off. You’d already said too much, opened up, blurted out the one thing that you didn’t want Tommy to know he still held over you—

The way you felt about him.

You stayed quiet, listening to the faint sound as Tommy inhaled and exhaled smoke.

“I’m sorry,” He whispered, so quietly that you thought you might have imagined it. “Things are complicated,” You forced yourself to swallow.

“Thing are always complicated when it comes to you, Tommy Shelby,” You replied, your chest beginning to hurt. “And I’m not sure I want a to be a part of it anymore,” You’d spoken the words before you could realise.

You hung up before he could reply.

This was the last straw—

Three months of second guessing every stare, every word, every strike of a match that Tommy Shelby threw your way.

Three months of being frightened about what was waiting for you around every corner.

Three months of realising that the feelings you harboured for Tommy were more than you’d ever imagined—

You loved him, wholeheartedly. You’d fallen for the Peaky Blinder, Small Heath’s most notorious gang leader, Tommy fucking Shelby—

And you’d allowed yourself to think that he loved you back.

No more—

_No more._


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're getting to the final chapters of this baby. Welp.

You distanced yourself more from Tommy in the days leading up to the Epsom Derby.

You opted to stay close to Arthur, John and the others, though. They made you laugh, they didn’t make your throat close up with a single stare.

Avoiding Tommy was harder than you’d thought it would be. Since you’d spoken on the phone, it felt like he was around you constantly. In the kitchen, in the betting shop, walking through Small Heath market.

You hadn’t said more than three words to each other over the past couple of days, but you knew preparations for the Derby were occupying him more than your silence and coldness. That was fine with you.

The love you harboured reminded you daily of him, no matter how hard you tried to stomp it down within you.

But you’d made up your mind—

You’d leave Birmingham after the Derby. You’d saved up enough to find somewhere else, somewhere down South again, maybe somewhere in London. With the Blinders references, you’d be able to bag any barmaid job in the country. You could live in a small apartment, or in your own terraced house. You could paint on the side, paint what you chose. You could find someone, settle down maybe—

Away from Birmingham. Away from this life that had erupted your world into something you never imagined it would.

You tapped your tea mug as you zoned out, thinking of the future. The doors to the kitchen burst open, and Tommy stormed inside. “Blinders meeting in the shop, ten minutes.” He said, before walking straight through the shop and slamming his office door shut.

“Nice to see you, too, Tommy,” You muttered to yourself.

You tried not to admit that you were missing his words, his soft voice, his calloused hands. You tried not to think about all that you could have if you’d stay in Small Heath. It was too difficult, too complex—it was Tommy Shelby. He wasn’t easy. He would never be yours, not fully.

It was hard to admit, but you’d come to face the facts. Things changed in the blink of an eye here, around the Blinders, there was nothing you could do about it. Leaving would be best for you—

You thought that Tommy would say the same thing, if you were ever to ask him. Which you would never do. Never. Not anymore.

You would tell them tonight; that you were leaving.

Tonight.

The Blinders were loaded into the shop, mumbling to themselves, when Tommy emerged from his office. You leaned against the doorway to the kitchen, overseeing the way they all went silent immediately. You refrained from chuckling.

“Men—women,” Tommy began. “Tomorrow is the Derby. This is the biggest job we’ve ever done, and if done right, it’ll ensure a future for our legitimate business.” He plucked a cigarette from his packet and placed it between his lips. “You all know your jobs, you all know that if done right, Shelby Brothers LTD will be set for a long time,”

He struck a match and lit his cig. Smoke coiled around his face, obscuring his eyeline.

When it cleared, he was staring directly at you.

You stared back, your heart hammering beneath your rib cage.

“Anything else to add?” He said it directly at you, like he knew that you were planning to talk. You used to wonder about how Tommy could divulge you with a single look. Now, you didn’t question it. You didn’t like it when he did, but there was nothing you could do to stop him.

“I have something to say,” You spoke finally. All eyes in the room turned to you, leaning against the kitchen door frame, half encased in shadow and the evening sunshine. “I’ve booked a seat on a train to London for the morning after the Derby,” You were surprised at how steady your voice sounded. “I’m leaving Birmingham,”

It was the first time you’d ever said it out-loud, for definite. You’d had conflict about whether the stay or go since you’d arrived in Birmingham, but you’d never once made it official in words.

This was real—

You were really going to leave.

“Y/N...” John was the first to speak. You dared to look at his face. His brows were furrowed, his eyes were wide, glassy—it was the most innocent he’d ever appeared to you.

It almost tore you in two.

Arthur smacked his hand down on his younger brother’s shoulder, sniffing suddenly. “The Garrison, eight o’clock tonight, everyone,” He boomed, but the way his face looked, almost too stony, too unbothered, you knew he was feeling too. “We’ll bid Y/N goodbye the proper way,” He turned to you. “A real Peaky send off—a real _family_ send off,”

You hadn’t looked at Polly since you’d spoken, too afraid that one look at her face would make you cry.

“If that’s all, then we’re done,” Tommy spoke coldly. He took a drag, staring at the ground. “That’s all,” The room stayed silent as Tommy strolled back to his office.

The Blinders started moving about, placing their caps back on their heads and shuffling their coats on, heading immediately for the Garrison.

You glanced at Arthur and John as they left the shop together. You watched as Polly, not turning to face you once, followed her nephews out of the door. You placed your stare on Tommy’s back, still stood in the doorway of his office.

You waited with baited breath, silently, as still as you could.

He turned back, his eyes hitting you immediately. He exhaled smoke, not wavering his stare.

“A word, Y/N,” He spoke bluntly, walking through the door and disappearing inside his office. You tried to bite down your sudden anxiety, but you knew it wouldn’t go away that easily.

You approached his office silently, every step you took reverberating throughout your entire body. You closed the door behind you, knowing that Tommy would simply ask you close it if you hadn’t.

You stayed standing as Tommy as behind his desk. For some reason, you didn’t feel like you deserved to sit opposite him anymore.

The two of you stayed silent for a minute or so, just getting used to being in the same space after the past few weeks of varied avoidance. You thought back to the first time you’d ever sat in Tommy’s office. Him smoking behind his desk, you sat in the opposite leather chair, drenched in the Birmingham moonlight.

That was the same moon that everyone saw, the same moon you used to look at in Goring. But it felt different, moonlight, in Birmingham. It felt fresher, more magical. It washed away the sins of those who lived here, it provided light to those who needed it—

It was a reset button on days where things hadn’t gone to plan.

Tommy finally stubbed out his cigarette. “London,” He spoke.

“London,” You repeated his words.

Tommy waited.

“Why?” It came out as a coarse whisper; your face dropped.

You were reminded of his words about Grace— _she got on a train to London and never looked back._ You wondered where she was now, you wondered if she’d ever had to go through this complex cycle with Tommy, the second guessing, the confusion, the downright rage at this entire situation.

You wondered if he was still in contact with her.

A sick feeling hit your gut—

Your mind began to whirr.

Tommy had named his Derby horse _Grace’s Secret_ , no doubt after this Grace in question.

You’d never been bothered by it until now—why did you feel as if this was why he’d been distant? Why so suddenly?

“You still love her,” You blurted out. All of a sudden, it all made sense. His distance, his inability to place his feelings—

He was still in love with Grace Burgess.

Tommy regarded you in silence. He traced your wide-eyes, your trembling fingers, your vulnerable body. He stood, approaching you slowly.

“I do,” He spoke. You hardly heard him. Your skin hardly felt his hands come to your face. Your eyes met his own. “But I also love you, Y/N. Very much,”

You tried not to let this crushing feeling consume you; a mixture of pure bliss and the most sadness as person could ever feel. Tommy Shelby loved you, but he was still in love with another woman.

He brought a thumb to your cheek and circled gently.

“Stay. Here, with me. Stay in Birmingham.”

You couldn’t believe the words that poured from Tommy’s mouth. The one thing you’d wanted him to say for so long, he was finally saying it. But—

You weren’t the only one.

He was still just a lovesick boy.

And you couldn’t do anything about it.

“Why—,” You began. “Why are you saying this now?”

“I _fucked up_ , Y/N. The same way you fucked up that painting, I _fucked up with you_.”

You frowned at him, overwhelmed.

“I’m not a painting, Tommy,” He tightened his grip on your face slightly, pulling you closer to him. He smelled like ash and whiskey, he smelled like Tommy.

“I know,” He brought his forehead to your own. You swallowed, shutting your eyes and falling into his grip.

He’d asked you to stay—

_He’d asked you to stay._

You wanted so much to say yes, to forget about the problems that this could bring, to forget about the easy life you’d planned for yourself in London. Easy was boring. Easy was why you’d left home in the first place.

Tommy had brought out a side of you that you’d never known existed. A side that was brave, exciting, in control of her own actions and abilities. You’d gone against people you’d have whimpered at only months before. You’d discovered yourself, being here.

It was a home that you’d never expected to love.

“May I sleep on it?” You whispered, repeating what you’d once said when he’d approached you about forging the painting.

“You may,” He replied, pulling his forehead away from your own. He kept his hands to your cheeks, he kept his eyes plastered on your own.

This closeness, this warmth and feeling of him being around you once more; you hadn’t realised how much you’d craved it. You couldn’t stomp down this feeling of needing to be around him anymore.

He took in a deep breath, moving a hand to the back of your neck, under your hair.

“May I kiss you?” His voice was a low, rough whisper. Only loud enough for you to hear, out of everyone in the entire world—

This was for you.

Only you.

You melted into his grasp.

“You may,”

All those months of pining, craving, needing his touch—this beat every single encounter that you’d had with the Peaky Blinder. He’d been honest with you, for once in his life. He’d told you the truth, and he’d admitted his feelings for you.

He’d opened himself up to you in so many subtle ways, and a part of you couldn’t wait to divulge the rest of what Tommy Shelby harboured; the rest of his soul.

Even if you still ended up leaving, you would never forget this moment—

_You would never forget Thomas Shelby._


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the penultimate chapter everyone! But a sequel is also on the cards for this. My lockdown just got extended by another 3 weeks, so all the more time to write about other things in the meantime. Hope you're all safe and well!
> 
> Enjoy x

You’d never been to an event this fancy before. The Epsom Derby was a playground for the rich and powerful, as well as the working class who were up for a bet here and there. Down South, horse racing had never been as big as it was in the Midlands. The Shelby’s were a classic example of a family that adored horses, whether they were making money off them or not.

You drove there with Poll, despite Tommy offering to take you in his car.

You’d woken up that morning, the pressure of Tommy’s lips still present on your own. He’d been gentle, more gentle than you’d ever imagined a man such as him to be. He hadn’t rushed, he’d taken his time, he’d let you fall into his grip until you were certain that you were comfortable; until you were certain that you’d wanted more—

You broke away first.

You had a habit of doing that when it came to him.

You also had a habit of coming right back.

“Here,” Tommy said, pulling you aside as everyone gathered near the parked cars, just outside the racetrack. He handed you a twenty-pound note. “For today. Do whatever you wish with it,”

“You don’t need to give me an allowance, Tommy,” You replied, holding the note hesitantly in your fingers.

“I know I don’t have to. I just want you to have a good time,” He added, his eyes tracing your face. “Leave a good lasting impression on your time here in Birmingham.”

You refrained from frowning, instead opting to take the note from his hands, slowly tucking it into your small bag. Poll had given you a summer dress to wear. It was light pink, and you paired it with a faux fur coat that you’d found in a small shop just off the high-street in Small Heath—the same one you’d bought your red dress from.

“Thank you,” You said finally, and he nodded back.

Poll approached you both. “Go about your business, Tommy. I don’t want Y/N to be any part of it today,” Polly gave her nephew a firm stare.

“Me neither, Poll,” Tommy replied, shooting one last glance at you before Polly slinked her arm through yours and whisked you away, towards the entrance to the Derby.

You swallowed down your anxiety.

Of course, you’d been kept in the dark about what was happening with the Shelby’s right now. You didn’t know who their enemies were, their rivals, their allies—

You didn’t know if blood was to be shed today, or not.

You tried not to dwell on the possibility that death may be around the corner for any number of men and women at the Derby today. You _tried_ —

It wasn’t working.

As you entered, music hit your ears. The place was rammed. Women in heels, dresses, topped with hats, roamed the stands and bar area beautifully. Men crowded next to the bar, already beginning to drink for the day. The betting room was packed to the brim, shouts and yells blaring from within.

You and Poll made your way outside to the track, the fresh air hitting you pleasantly once more. You looked upwards, as decadent people walked up the stairs and waited to be seated at a restaurant.

“What’s up there, Poll?”

“The upper levels. For businessmen and merchants,” She replied. You took in a breath.

“Will Tommy be doing business up there?” You let out.

Poll turned to you sternly. “Don’t concern yourself with them today. You’re not involved. You’re here to have a good time. Remember what we I said at the pub last night,”

You thought back to the night before—

Tommy and you walked to the Garrison together, after the _talk_ in his office. Your cheeks were flushed a vibrant red, and you spent most of the walk praying that they’d die down by the time you reached the Garrison.

He walked slowly, with a purpose. You kept up with him, but it felt different. Walking side by side with him this time around;

It felt like the last time.

Maybe it would be.

Tommy pushed open the doors to the Garrison, letting you enter before himself. As you did, the room erupted into cheers. You jumped out of your skin, your eyes widening at the happy sight that met you.

The Blinders stood, raising their beers to the sky. Arthur strolled forward, handing you and Tommy and pint of your own. He placed a hand on your shoulder, turning to the rest of his men.

“You know the drill men—let’s give this lass a send-off she’ll never forget!” Yells erupted from everyone’s mouths once more, before they all proceeded to down their pints. One by one they slammed their glasses to the tables, patiently waiting for you to do the same.

You glanced at Tommy, stood to your left, then to Poll, lit cigarette in her hand by the pillar, a sad smile plastered on her face.

You took your pint in both hands and raised it to you lips—

Within a few seconds, its contents were down your throat. You slammed the empty glass down on the nearest table and let out a deep breath. Cheers poured around you once more, and you couldn’t help but smile, despite the sudden uneasy feeling in your stomach from the influx of beer.

You stepped towards Poll as everyone died down once again.

She regarded you sweetly, but you could see sadness behind her stare. “Poll,”

She raised her hand abruptly. “Nothing of it. Tonight, it’s about you.” You took in her words, sending her a sad smile. She stubbed her cigarette out quickly and opened her arms. “Come here,”

You didn’t hesitate to fall into her arms. She wrapped herself around you in no time, and the feeling in your gut tripled. Poll, despite everything, had turned out to be the mother figure that you hadn’t had in a very long time. As you embraced, she whispered in your ear.

“Your life is what you make it, and I know without a doubt that you’ll make it something amazing,” You squeezed her even tighter. “I can’t wait to see what you become,” You placed your head into her shoulder.

“Thank you for being here,” You pulled apart slowly. “I’m glad I know you, Polly.”

Polly brought her hand to your face, tucking some hair behind your ear. “That makes two of us, sweetie,” You met her eyes, and your own threatened to overflow. She brought her other hand to your cheek. “None of that, this is a happy occasion. A celebration. Along with tomorrow, you only have to worry about having a bloody good time, got that?”

You nodded quickly, taking in her words.

“Good,” She whispered, circling her thumb across your cheek. “Now, go and join John’s bloody drinking game,” She turned you and gently ushered you towards John’s table. You sensed her movements as she headed towards the doors to outside. The doors shut behind her, and you sat down at the table with the others.

You wondered if she’d gone out to weep, to cry in private away from the Blinders and her nephews. It hurt your heart to think about Polly crying, let alone because of your decision to leave.

“I know,” You replied to her, the Derby starting to fill up even more. “I only need to worry about having a good time, not anything else.”

“Good,” Poll replied, sending you a bright smile. “Come on, I need a drink,”

You and Poll spent the next hour enjoying yourselves in the bar. The gin trickled down your throat and warmed up your insides, the laughter left your mouth in giddy bursts. On occasion, a man would approach you and Poll at your table. He’d grab both yours and Poll’s hands and kiss your knuckles while you and Poll giggled like children. He’d offer to buy you a drink, and you’d politely decline—

It was a happy cycle. You’d never been flirted with this much before, but it was a nice feeling. Exciting, welcoming, never pressuring, especially while Polly was also sat with you. She could sense your uneasiness a mile away, but you hadn’t felt uneasy the entire time you’d been in the bar with her.

That all ended when Tommy walked in.

Immediately, he waltzed over to you and Polly, his eyes a frenzy. He sat next to you without a word, grabbing a cigarette and lighting it immediately. He stretched across the table and took Polly’s half full gin and tonic without asking, then gulped it down in one. “Ladies,” He finally spoke.

You let out a pissed off scoff, before sliding your gin across the table to Poll. “I’ll get another,” You stood up, and Tommy’s hand grabbed onto your forearm. He pulled himself up to face you, his eyes full of something that scared you.

“Polly, I believe someone you want to speak with is by the phone booths.” Tommy spoke without looking at her. His eyes were utterly plastered on you.

You shot a glance at Polly; her face had gone sheet white. Polly stood suddenly, gripping her bag to her chest. “Tommy, stay here with Y/N until I’m back,” She said sternly, before she fast walked away.

“Poll—,”

“She’s fine, Y/N.” Tommy still gripped your arm, and he chose to pull you along as he made his way towards the bar. He ordered a gin bluntly.

“What’s going on, Tommy? You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” You almost whispered it.

“I have,” He let out, but you weren’t sure whether he’d meant to say it or not. His eyes traced the other people in the bar, as if he was looking out for someone. “That twenty-pound note, don’t leave here until you’ve used it all up, or until Polly is back.”

“What’s going on—,”

“Just promise me, Y/N. Don’t leave here. Don’t.”

His eyes bored into yours without hesitation. You’d never seen Tommy this serious in all the time you’d known him. He was unmoving, his star unwavering, his grip not loosening on your arm.

“I promise, Tommy,” You said finally, but your gut coiled as you did so.

You were lying.

And you knew you were, despite how much you wanted to be truthful.

Tommy continued to stare at you, and for a moment you thought he knew that you weren’t being honest. The way he could divulge you with one stare couldn’t go that far, could it?

“Good,” He said finally, but you still refrained from showing your true intentions to him. He passed you the gin he’d ordered and smacked a full packet of cigarettes on the bar in front of you. “I’ll be back later, so will Poll,”

He finally removed his grip from you, then turned abruptly and made his way to the bar exit. You didn’t watch him walk away, you didn’t watch him stop just before the exit and turn back to look at you—

“Y/N!” He shouted, and you looked up immediately, trying not to show how he’d made you jump out of your skin.

His eyes hit yours, those striking blue eyes, as deep as the ocean, as unsearched as the seas—

He moved his mouth, but didn’t make a sound, before he turned on his heels and left, for real this time.

You stopped breathing, too afraid to move. If you moved, tears would definitely overflow from your eyes.

Those words—

It wasn’t just a blanket statement to you anymore—

You thought that, perhaps, this was Tommy’s way of saying goodbye, mouthing those words that you’d shoved to the back of your mind from the night before—

_I love you._


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it- the final chapter. Thank you so much for reading this! I'm so happy for all the support I've received and appreciate you all dearly. 
> 
> This isn't the end however! I've already begun a sequel! Woohoo!
> 
> Hope you're all safe and well, enjoy x

You stayed at the bar long enough to have another two drinks, but you weren’t here to get drunk. Tommy was still gone, so was Poll, and you weren’t planning on staying put at all.

You’d lied, and Tommy hadn’t seen through it.

Maybe you _were_ a Blinder.

You left the bar confidently, making your way to the racetrack. The horses were on the starting line, ready to go. People were flocking out from the upper levels to take their seats. A booming voice shouted over the mumbles of the crowds—

“Jockey’s, take your marks!”

He raised a pistol to the sky and the crowd went utterly silent. You found yourself holding your breath without meaning to.

He pulled the trigger, and the blank shot into the sky—

The crowd erupted.

You watched the horses as they took off, the ground beneath their feet churning up immediately, the jockeys keeping in time with their steed. It was mesmerising, something that you’d never seen before. Now you understood why the Shelby’s loved it so much, maybe it wasn’t just at the prospect of money, maybe it was more than that.

You left the track before people came rushing towards the barriers, making your way to the upper levels. You entered the restaurant. It was elegant, covered in pastel colours and full to the brim with fresh flowers. It was much quieter here, occupied only by people in pristine suits and dresses, having a cup of tea and a formal chat.

You loved the atmosphere, but felt like an imposter.

You cut through the restaurant quickly, suddenly anxious of what the rich people would think of you being there.

You found yourself in a covered area, similar to the look of the bar and betting room, but no one roamed about.

An uneasy feeling hit your gut, and you found yourself thinking of Polly. Maybe she’d returned and was looking for you? Maybe Tommy was back too, tearing a frenzy through the lower levels to try and find you.

You clutched your coat tighter around you, intent on going back to where you were ordered to be—

That’s when you heard the ruckus.

You whipped your head to the side, and as you did so you saw the outline of woman. She was running, her legs pumping her petite frame forward, her hair a tussle and her dress ripped. She rounded the corner and out of sight.

You inhaled a shaky breath—

Something was happening.

You steadied yourself as best as you could, making your way towards where she’d fled. You had that feeling, that buzzing of energy, that sudden spur of adrenaline coursing through your veins—the same feeling you’d had when you pulled the gun on Keels—the same feeling you’d had when you were sat atop Tommy’s lap—the same feeling you’d had when you were trapped in McCullen’s warehouse—

Danger.

_This was danger._

And you weren’t fleeing—

You were heading towards it.

You crept up the small wooden hallways, noises of struggle and effort becoming more apparent the closer you got.

You rounded the corner slowly, and found yourself in a secluded stall space. Just around the corner to your left, you knew a fight was happening.

The grunts, the moans, the yelps of pain—it was unmistakable to you, now that you were aware of the bad in the world.

You took in a deep breath—

And you _lunged_ —

A trigger went off, exploding red onto the wood behind the men—

Striking blue eyes, gun metal in the air, warm blood trickling on the floor.

Tommy stared at you, a just fired gun still held towards the slumped man that he’d just shot dead. Blood pooled around his feet, spreading evermore by the second. His chin was destroyed, the bullet wound had exited his skull at the top of his head—

That red splatter—

That was a man.

_A dead man._

And Tommy Shelby was alive, gun in hand, blood blotched on his cheeks and tie.

“Y/N—” Maybe you’d imagined him saying your name, but you didn’t stick around any longer. Time was slow as you sprinted back the way you came. Your blood boiled, your gut coiled, your head was pounding—

But all you knew was _run—run—run._

_Get out._

_Leave._

All of this, you’d known from the beginning.

But seeing it—seeing a man murdered in front of you—seeing the face of the man you loved after he’d pulled the trigger—

You stopped abruptly, your stomach flipping upside down within your body, and vomited over a wooden railing. You wiped your mouth with your bare arm, trembling all over. But still, you didn’t stop—

You didn’t know where you were running to, but your legs still pumped forward.

Tommy’s stare was etched in your mind, the gun held strongly in his hand, the dead man bleeding out at his feet. “ _Y/N_ —,”

No.

_Enough._

You knew this from the beginning—the Shelby’s were murderers. Tommy Shelby was a murderer. You’d pushed it aside for too long, choosing to focus on the good parts of them, of which there were copious reasons, despite their ungodly actions.

You followed the winding pathways of the lower levels, no idea whether you were getting away or simply running in circles.

You surged forward, whipping through an opening in a tent.

You found yourself in the betting room, people still sat, mingling with each other. You wondered if they’d even heard the gunshot—if they even cared. You slowed to a normal pace immediately, stopping to catch your breath, your anxiety at its peak. You were afraid you’d vomit again.

“Excuse me, Miss,” A sweet voice hit your ears, and you shot up. You met her eyes; shining blue. “Are you alright?” She asked, her golden hair perfectly styled, her pink dress almost the same colour as your own. She even had a similar fur coat. Sweat trickled down your brow, your face was pale and pasty, like a walking, talking ghost.

You forced yourself to gain a sense of consciousness and straightened yourself out.

“Yes,” You let out quickly. “Perhaps I drank too much too fast,” You added, thinking on your feet. She smiled at you, but a frown was still present on her face.

“I hope you don’t think me strange, but a while ago I saw you with a man. A man named Thomas Shelby.” You almost stopped breathing. The way your eyes widened, you knew that she’d catch on to your lies in a heartbeat.

“Yes—he’s an acquaintance. I bumped into him here,” You spoke slowly, trying not to hesitate.

“I see. Well, and please forgive me for prying, but have you seen him anywhere recently?” You noted her Irish accent, the way her brow furrowed, her eyes still floating around the room, waiting to see his face. “The race just ended. He was supposed to meet me here after.”

Your heart panged under your ribcage. You tried to block out the image of Tommy once more, gun in hand, blood already beginning to soak through his suit.

“No, unfortunately I haven’t,” You spoke bluntly. The woman’s face returned to a sweet smile, still underlined with that frown.

“Oh well, thank you for your time anyway, Miss—,”

“L/N. Miss L/N.” You spoke suddenly. You surprised yourself, as well as her, at your forwardness, but for some reason deep within you; you _wanted_ this woman to know who you were.

_You needed her to know._

“Miss L/N,” She repeated, nodding curtly. She straightened herself out quickly, raising her chin to the sky, catching on to your behaviour. “If you see him, Thomas Shelby, then would you be so kind as to tell him I’m still waiting for him?” You swallowed.

“And who might you be?” You asked sweetly, as sweetly as you could. The thing was, you already had an inkling of who this woman could be. Deep down, you were certain—

Her sad eyes—

Asking after Tommy—

_Lovesick._

“Burgess. Grace Burgess.”

_Grace._

_Grace’s Secret._

Did that make you _Tommy’s_ secret?

“I’ll tell him. If I see him.” You lied.

“Thank you,” Grace replied, her face more relaxed now, but you could see the questioning arch of her eyebrow. “So, how did you and Tommy come to be acquaintances?” She asked. She was stepping over the line; she knew it.

“A series of events. Ones that’ll haunt me for the rest of my life,” You smiled sweetly at her, your voice full of so much fire. Grace raised her chin once more, noticing the change in atmosphere between the two of you. “I’ll be taking my leave, now,”

Grace straightened herself out once more, wrapping her fur coat around her sturdily.

“Well, perhaps we’ll meet again someday, Miss L/N.” Her voice was thick and cold. You shot her another sweet smile.

“I highly doubt that, Miss Burgess. Goodbye.”

The world was blurred as you made your way out of the Derby—away from them all.

You thought that perhaps you’d cry, sob, weep—to finally leave this life behind. The blood, thick and red and warm. His touch, cold and craved and needed. This family—so dysfunctional, but still tied together tightly with string.

It hadn’t dawned on you until you reached the station in Birmingham, stowed your belongings above you, sat down for the ride to London—

That the only person you’d said goodbye to was Grace.

A whistle blew, and the train began rolling on—

Away from Birmingham—

Away from the Shelby’s—

Away from the person you used to be.


End file.
